
*r-. 



%^i 




POETRY AND PROSE, 



BY 



MRS. CHARLOTTE A. JERAULD 



WITH 



A MEMOIR, 



BY 



HENRY ^BACON. 




BOSTON: 
A. TOMPKINS, 38 CORNHILL 
1860. 



-f^a-l^l 




^to 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, 

Ey Abel Toiwpkins, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Coui-t of the District of Massachusetts, 



Stereotyped by 

HOBART & BOBBINS, 

BOSTON. 



PREFACE. 



Thanks are tendered to those friends who so readily 
furnislied letters and facts for the brief Memoir herewith 
presented to the reader. Our aim has been to say too 
little, rather than too much; but what we have said, 
whether it be regarded as too limited or too extended, we 
have said in all good conscience, regarding it as great a 
sin to speak dishonestly of the dead as of the living. Our 
record here is of a pure-hearted and heroic woman ; — not 
heroic because of any wonderful exhibition of female intre- 
pidity, but because of a sustaining and persistent energy, 
that made the best of life as it came, not refusing to do 
little in the way of culture, because a great deal could not 
be done. The truest heroism is that which seldom finds a 
place in history, and to proclaim which the trumpet of 
fame is too brazen. It is the heroism of a constant resist- 
ing of difficulties which stand in the way of soul-advance- 
ment, and that threaten, by their constant encroachments, 
to put out the fire of effort, and weaken the hope of the 
heart. We have not written this little Memoir with any 
other expectation than that a religious lesson will be re- 
ceived, favorable to such an humble and grateful recog- 
nition of Divine Benefactions as will prevent a wasting of 



IV PREFACE. 

mind in unfruitful wishing for more. If we can aid the 

work of this religion by this Memoir, — if we can awake' 

any young woman to the use of whatever means of culture 

are granted to her, that she may no longer say she is above 

or below her sphere, and that effort is vain, — we shall gain 

our only object in setting up this unpretending Memorial 

of Charlotte. 

The Portrait herewith given was taken from a miniature 

painted in Charlotte's girlhood, the only likeness of her to 

be found. Her mother says she sees nothing to be altered, 

and is much pleased with it. This is a sufficient evidence 

of correctness. 

HENRY BACON. 

Providence f R. Z, Oct. 1850. 



CONTENTS. 



FADE 

MEMOIR, 17 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

The Call, 101 

" Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven," . . ' . , . 102 

Mossdale Cottage, 103 

Flowers, 105 

The Old Well, 106 

Church Bells, 108 

Violets, 109 

'^ He commandeth Light to shine out of Darkness," . , 110 

The Flower-gatherers, . .' Ill 

Music, 114 

A Death-scene, 115 

Mary, 116 

Song, 117 

The First Communion, . . . ... . .118 

A Dream of Heaven, •••. 119 

The Magdalene, . . .120 

To a Temperance Lecturer, . • . . • • . 122 

Reminiscences, 123 

1# 



VI CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

The Minstrel Bride, 125 

The Dying Wife to her Husband, 127 

A Sketch, . 129 

The Motherless, 130 

Charity Hymn, ........... 133 

Installation Hymn, .....••>« 133 

The True Christian, 134 

Humility, Hope and Truth, ••..... 135 

The Name, 136 

The Old Wife to her Husband, 137 

The Widow's Treasures, 139 

A Memorial of Happy Days, . . . . . . .141 

The Lonely One, 143 

Prayer of the Sailor's Wife, . . . . . . . 145 

Genevieve, 146 

Song, 147 

On the Death of Miss E. A. Holt, 148 

Weep not for the Dead, 150 

Song, . . . *. . . . . . . . .151 

Sonnets, 152 

I. " Give me more light," ..... 152 
II. "He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and 

on the good," 152 

III. " And sendeth rain on the just and on the un- 

just," 153 

IV. The Crucifixion, 153 

V. The Stars, 154 

VI. Mary, Mother of Christ, 154 

VII. "Our Father! who art in heaven," . . . 155 
VIII. " Thy kingdom come," 155 



CONTENTS. TH 

PAGB 

IX. " Give us this day our daily bread," . . , 156 

X. " Lead us not into temptation," .... 156 
XL "For thine is the kingdom, the power and the 

glory forever. Amen," .... 157 

XII. Cassie, 157 

XIII. The Bride, 158 

XIV. The Burial, 158 

XV. God's Altar, 159 

XVI. Clara, 159 

XVII. Suggested by a Temperance Discourse, , . 160 

XVIII. A Vision, 160 

XIX. Mary, 161 

" Pray without ceasing," 161 

Records of the Old Year, 162 

*' I know that my Redeemer liveth," 164 

To a Friend, on the Death of her Husband, .... 165 

The Good Old Man, 167 

" 1 would not live alway." 168 

The Old Church-bell, ..168 

" Comfort ye my People," 170 

The Village Grave-yard, . .' 172 

A Song for the Past, 173 

'•' We have been Friends together," 174 

Memories, . 175 

The Wood-path, 177 

" Life is like an April day," 179 

Eloquence, 180 

"No More," 181 

Childhood, 182 

The Early Dead, 183 



Vra CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

" Bear the Cross and wear the Crown," • . • • • 184 

Yearnings for the Departed, . , . . • . . 185 

Stanzas, ,, 187 

Isabel, 188 

Light and Shadow, 189 

The Meccas of Memory, . . 193 

What shall I wish for thee, 195 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 

Emma Beaumont, 197 

'\Iargaret Leslie, 209 

Kate Vincent, 225 

Lights and Shadows of AVoman's Life, 243 

Our Minister's Family, ...... 243 

The May Queen, . . 261 

Caroline, 290 

The Irish Daughter-in-law, 311 

The Mother's Heart, . . . . . . .326 

The Auld Wife, 344 

Chronicles and Sketches of Hazlehurst, .... 363 
A Bird's-eye View of the Town, . . . .363 

The Squantum, 378 

Bose Brady, ..•••... 398 

The Lace-weaver, 416 



MEMOIK. 



Five years have passed, and on the anniversary 
of Charlotte's death we begin this Memorial. The 
heavy rains are falling, and the sultry air of this 
August day is oppressive ; but ffie sunlight pene- 
trates the clouds, and, at intervals, the clear blue 
heavens open to the eye, like the overarching prov- 
idence of God, which to see is to be consoled. 
Suddenly called to this labor, we most earnestly 
wish to perform it aright, guarding equally against 
the exaggerations of friendship, that make question- 
able the verity of a record, and that cold, critical 
analysis of character, which sees no difference 
between the anatomy of the body and the soul, 
and which, having no enthusiasm, can commu- 
nicate none to the reader. An English artist, in 
explaining why he found more demands for por- 
traits in this country than at home, said, that the 
English sought a portrait when the beauty of a 
face impelled them, but Americans, to gratify their 
affections. The contrast may illustrate the differ- 
ence between the passion for biography when some 
extraordinary phase of character or genius is to be 
depicted, and that more moderate feeling, that asks 



ih 



MEMOIR. 



for a memorial of the beloved, though no very 
striking qualities may command the attention of 
the world. Dr. Johnson once remarked, that the 
life of the humblest and most obscure person would 
furnish matter for a valuable biography, were it 
truthfully written ; and why should we not see the 
same utihty, in the biographies of those who have 
lived worthily in a retired sphere, as in the little 
local histories of towns and hamlets. They are 
the milder lights that cheer us as we enter the vil- 
lage streets, after leaving the sea with its blazing 
beacon-towers. 

But if, with the living face to inspire him, the 
artist, with his pencils and colors, fails so often to 
present an acceptable likeness of a friend, what 
shall be our hope, when we have only words to 
paint with, and five years have passed since our 
friend was visible ! To make our best effort, is all 
we have promised; and we write as the artist 
paints, who cannot shake off a singular tremor, as 
he feels that a thinking soul is looking through 
searching eyes, tracing, with him, the progress of 
the work before him. Only as he sees, can he 
paint ; and though tremblingly sensitive, and eager 
to counterfeit nature, he cannot touch the canvas 
as another's thought would bid him. He looks, he 
paints ; and when the last touch is given, he yields 
his work, and awaits the decisions of those who 
forget how much easier it is to criticize than to 
execute better. Charlotte is before me, and though 
I well remember the poet's verse. 



MEMOIR. 19 

" How pure at heart, and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold, 
Should be the man whose thought would hold 
An hour's communion with the dead, — " 

yet I take courage to attempt my task, as, unlike 
the poet, I do not seek to penetrate the mysteries 
of the future, but to recall the past, and let it point 
its moral, and teach its lesson. 

Charlotte lived to love. Her fondest wish was 
to be loved by the estimable and the good ; and one 
of the chief sorrows of her life was, the fear that 
she appeared frivolous to those whose love could 
be won only by that depth of character to which 
gayety was but as the foam of the wave to the sea. 
Her keen sense of the ludicrous was regarded by 
her as her ^'evil genius." It was active every- 
where, and yet was accompanied by the most pro- 
found reverence for things holy, and appreciation 
of things beautiful. Such a union is not uncom- 
mon, and we must vindicate it ere we enter upon 
the memoir. The merriest things have been writ- 
ten and said, when the intensest pain was felt, and 
the deepest melancholy was on the soul. Cowper 
wrote his John Gilpin in a fit of heaviest despond- 
"ency ; and was not Hood, who hid his maladies by 
his melodies, and so poured an infusion of his 
cheerful philosophy into the general heart that 
hardly a soul dreamed he was a sufferer, — was 
not he a man of constant suffering? A more beau- 
tiful face I have never seen than his portrait pre- 
sents. What an eye, expressive of pain calmly 
borne, while the lips are gently pressed together 



20 MEMOIR. 

with a smile, and the whole countenance is lighted 
with a sunshiny thought ! He sang only when he 
could say, 

" I smell the rose above the mould." 

His groans were smothered, and died in his own 
chamber. And what honest indignation did he 
pour out on a reverend detractor, who could not see 
that glittering bubbles were made beautiful by the 
same sunshine that lights the world, and who 
styled that ribaldry which would, in dissolving, 
leave no stain on purity ! The intensest suffering 
has been sometimes endured because of the false 
religious estimate of the lighter moods of mind, as 
though ''the limit of becoming mirth" were "jail 
limits." Let fitness of time and place be' heeded, 
and what reasons are to be given why "quips and 
cranks " should not be allowed as well as the most 
impressive utterance of the most awful thought'? 
An intense discernment of the ludicrous was as 
natural and irresistible to Charlotte as breathing ; 
and the activity of this quality of mind has been 
seen in the purest, most religious and devotional 
characters. The banishment of it from the record 
of many a Christian's life, has made the portrait 
unjust to the subject. It is because of this that 
religious books have sometimes been called the 
most irreligious literature. The wipressioti made 
on the reader is false to the reality of religion, and 
is injurious to the claims of religion on the whole- 
ness of human nature. It is only to be likened to 



MEMOIR. 21 

the melancholy picture of old age, where youth is 
forgotten, and the life of life is gone. 

Reform is needed in this department of moral 
effort, and we imagine something may be done by 
a vindication of the harmony that may exist, where 
"jest and youthful jollity" make one phase of a 
character, and the lowliest humility, and the deep- 
est yearning for oneness with God, presents another. 
It is the under-current of humor that keeps the 
best minds in healthy movement ; and the loss of 
that sprightliness has been the death of the most 
elastic energies. " Leaves are light, Avavering, 
changeable," says Jeremy Taylor; "they even 
dance ; yet God, in his wisdom, has made them a 
part of the oak. In so doing, he has given us a 
lesson, not to deny stout-heartedness within, be- 
cause we see the lightsomeness without." And so 
also glorious Milton may speak and say, " This 
vein of laughing hath oftentimes a strong and 
sinewy force in teaching and confuting." 

This vein was rich in our friend Charlotte, but 
it never threw a richness of humor over anything 
bad. It poured out its affluence as a bird sings, as 
a brook glitters, as the phosphorescence of the sea 
charms the voyager ; but as that bird could fly 
heavenward, and that brook held its course to the 
river," and that phosphorescence took nothing from 
the majesty and glory of the sea, so the mind and 
heart of Charlcrtte possessed the loftier and holier 
tendencies. Throughout her diversified corre- 
spondence, gayety of thought and feeling is met ; 

wit sparkles and glitters; but never does it min- 

2 



22 MEMOIR. 

ister to malicious feeling, or ungenerous criticism. 
It is a play of words that adds to the garden its 
butterflies — to the mill-stream its foamy brilliants. 
Such a restraint of a spontaneous power is as fine 
an inlet to character as any revelation can give ; for 
as we read of Jesus, he is known by his silence as 
well as by his speech. There is weakness of char- 
acter where fitness of time and occasion is not 
thought of in indulging wit and humor; there is 
strength, when the proper restraint is continuously 
imposed. 

Charlotte was born in Old Cambridge, Mass., 
April 16, 1820. Her home was near "the Col- 
leges." Her parents were Richard and Charlotte 
Fillebrown, who, in the early childhood of their 
daughter, removed to Boston. Her father was a 
worthy and industrious man, and a kind and in- 
dulgent parent, possessing a generous spirit and a 
liberal mind. His daughter was the pride of his 
life, and he labored to secure to her all advantages 
possible in his humble lot to aid her culture. The 
daughter reciprocated this fervency of affection, 
and when she recalled the years of their union, she 
could remember but one instance of disobedience. 
For that she was sent from his presence during a 
single meal, and it was nearly a heart-break to her. 
He died when she was nine years of age.' Her 
mother still lives. When the intelligence of her 
father's death was brought to Charlotte, she fainted, 
and every attempt to look upon the corpse was 
followed by the same result. All through her life, 
she kept his memory green, and frequently, when 



MEMOIR. 23 

recurring to the opening years of her hfe, she 
would say, ''Had he Hved, I should have been 
happy." 

In the common schools of Boston she received 
all the educational advantages which were ever 
afforded her, and none of the scholars of her age 
were more assiduous in their studies, or rightly 
ambitious of advancement, than was she. The 
recollections of her at the beginning, and in the 
progress of her school-days, furnished by one of her 
earliest friends, present an interesting picture of 
her. She says : — 

I could relate much concerning- her which would be 
exceedingly interesting, were it not that it would be tearing 
aside the veil which conceals the private feelings of both. I 
riiust confine myself, therefore, to a 'few comparativefy uninter- 
esting incidents. When about nine years of age, I was trans- 
ferred, among other children, from the Bowdoin school, in 
Derne-street, to the Mayhew school, in Hawkins-street. I 
think it was on the first day of my appearance there, that a 
little girl came to me, and, in the sweetest and most winning 
manner, made herself acquainted. She had a fair complexion ; 
fine, dark-blue eyes ; long, dark eyelashes ; long, dark-brown, 
curling hair, and a countenance beaming with every kind feel- 
ing. It was Charlotte. She welcomed me — a stranger; she 
took me to her heart, and the attachment then commenced con- 
tinued unabated and unshaken through all life's vicissitudes, 
unto the last moment of her life. She was then about eight 
^ears of age — one year younger than myself. The family con- 
sisted then of her mother, herself, and one brother, younger 
than herself. They removed, shortly after I became acquainted 
with them, to an old-fashioned house in Pitts-street, now de- 
stroyed and replaced by a more modern one. In a room of that 
old house, which stands unrivalled in my memory for neatness 
and cheerfulness, I passed some of the happiest hours of my 



24 MEMOIR. 

life. We attended the same school constantly, and from per- 
sonal observation I can say, that as a scholar I have never 
seen her surpassed. There may have been those who were 
more brilliant, but I am sure none more solid. She betrayed, 
at a very early age, an inordinate fondness for poetry, and other 
works of fiction, but she very seldom neglected her duties to 
gratify this taste. It was my delight to establish myself com- 
fortably by her side every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, 
and let her pour into my eager ears the information which she 
had gleaned from English papers, furnished by a relative. At 
that time we were thoroughly acquainted with the incomings 
and outgoings of every duke, duchess, marquis, marchioness, 
baronet, baroness, and right honorable, in all England, Scot- 
land and Ireland. At this time, also, she wrote many pieces 
of poetry, which were duly read to and praised by me. In this 
manner five or six years glided away. At the expiration of 
that time, we had both set ourselves up for young ladies, and 
entered the world as such ; -and although her attachment for me 
remained as fervent as ever, yet, as there was a marked differ- 
ence in our characters, there was consequently a marked differ- 
ence in our pursuits ; and our intercourse was, in a great 
measure, broken up, and we renewed it only at intervals of two 
or three years until after her marriage, when it was again 
renewed, and continued unbroken until the sad day of her 
death. 

While at school, Charlotte received many tokens 
of the approval of her teachers. She excelled par- 
ticularly in "composition," and so excellent were 
her pieces that her teacher was suspicious she was 
shining in borrowed jewels. To test her, she gave 
her a subject, and a certain space of time in which 
to write a certain number of verses on that theme. 
This was cruelty on the part of the teacher, as it 
implied the supposition that the mind can write 
readily, like a machine, at the bidding of another ; 



MEMOIR. 25 

but the scholar took the theme, aroused by her 
honesty being questioned, and in less than the 
appointed time she produced more than the required 
complement of verses. The teacher was satisfied, 
and suspicion changed to pride. A little incident 
took place at this period of our friend's life, which 
lived with her. She had written quite a number 
of ''compositions" on patriotic subjects, that called 
out the full strength of her thought, and power of 
expression. The school was visited by Hon. Daniel 
Webster and Hon. Henry Clay, and, as a part of 
the exhibition, the teacher read some of the com- 
positions of the scholars. The eminent statesmen 
requested that the writer of some they specified 
should be pointed out to them, and Charlotte was 
introduced to them. They each made some com- 
plimentary remarks to her, Mr. Clay finishing his 
with, — : " I wish you were a boy, for then I would 
make a statesman of you." 

She was wont to regard her school-days as the 
happiest-period of her life. She "loved to study," 
and composition, the terror of most school-children, 
was the easiest task to her. In the school was a 
boy who had a remarkable genius for drawing, but 
none for the use of the pen and words ; Charlotte 
wrote for him, and he drew for her, and they 
thought it quite a good exchange. He is now an 
artist of celebrity. 

Here we have the first kindlings of that intense 
love of mental culture which marked every period 
of Charlotte's life. Nothing could quench it. The 
humbleness of her lot, presenting to her no prophe- 

r 



26 MEMOIR. 

cies but of a life of toil, and promising no aids to 
intellectual development but those to be found 
only at hours which less ardent natures would give 
to repose, did not prevent her improving to the 
utmost every providential privilege. What she 
might be to the world, was not her thought; but 
what her soul might become by the higher awak- 
enings of its powers, was the vision without which 
she would have perished. Her school compositions 
are marked with a solicitous care that does the best 
that can be done at the time of doing; and in 
examining them, we were struck, at the first glance, 
with the accuracy and precision of the 'punctua- 
tion. Some of the best and most prolific writers 
leave this matter but loosely attended to ; and it is 
indicative of a want of fixedness or persistence of 
purpose, or of patient effort, to make the meaning 
definite — the thought clear. We have before us a 
composition written by Charlotte when she was 
but thirteen, marked on the back of the paper with 
the highest approval of her teacher — the figure 
8, underscored with four strokes of the pen, denot- 
ing a four-fold emphasis of approbation. We give 
one verse as a specimen. The poem is entitled 
''^ Stanzas ^^^ and opens thus : — 

I love to quit my father's lordly dome, 
And leaving far behind my splendid home, 
To stray to some lone spot, and seek the shade, 
Far from unfeeling mirth and vain parade. 

The hand- writing is beautiful. The punctua- 
tion-marks are as handsome as though made with 



MEMOIR, 27 

type; and this excellence she preserved through 
her whole life, in her letters, as in the "copy" for 
the printer. This peculiarity, which marked a 
progress that was sure of one step before another 
was taken, is seen in all the pencillings in the 
books which contain her earliest compositions; and 
it is pleasant to look over these first efforts, and see 
the changes and transpositions by which she im- 
proved her use of language. This reading next 
morning what was written at night, is an example 
that many young writers need to copy, for she had 
to contend with what is too often a fatal facility in 
the use of language. Our periodicals contain too 
many compositions, which, we should think, were 
never read aloud by their writers, that the ear 
might detect what eludes the eye, and which are 
hurried to the press as though some necessity was 
on the writers, irresistibly impelling them to such 
an extremity. The half is oftentimes better than 
the whole, as the orange-grower cut the fruit in 
halves, and gave only the golden portion to his 
visiter, saying, " We give only the sunnied side to 
our friends." 

Many allusions to scenes and objects connected 
with her early childhood are to be found in her 
poems, for her sight brought her the meaning of 
things as they appear only to the poet. In one of 
her letters (1842) she says : — 

I am glad you like " The Old Well," for it is a favorite of 
mine, and speaks to me of one of the favorite haunts of my 
childhood. How often have I trodden that old foot-path, 
pitcher in hand, to get a draught from the cool, shaded well ! 



28 MEMOIR. 

1 have sent to the Repository a little poem, describing another 
of those dear spots. I have told you, I believe, that my early 
years were passed amid the beauties of Nature, and my recol- 
lections of them are extremely vivid. At times they rise 
before me so brightly and beautifully that I cannot refrain 
from describing them ; — as though strangers could sympa- 
thize in my ardent love for them ! 

She probably referred to ''The Wood Path," 
where she expresses her memories as the recollec- 
tions of an aged man. Around her early home 
was much to awaken the heart to the ministry of 
Nature ; and thither she resorted, as a retreat from 
the town. Lovelier rambling-spots for the feet of 
the dreamy child are not to be found than in 
"classic Cambridge;" and who can tell us but 
that the shades of Mount Auburn were visited by 
her, and that her longing to sleep there took a 
touching earnestness from the unspeakable associ- 
ations of life's dewy morning? Many a soul like 
hers felt the fitness of those hills and vales for a 
cemetery, long before the thought came to those 
who originated that use of the scholar's rural study 
and the child's sweet rambling-place. Images of 
beauty thus fixed in her memory lived with her, 
and but a slight thing was necessary to recall the 
beloved scenes of the past. A gift of an "Annual" 
gave her the sight of a picture of " The Haunted 
Spring;" and, writing to her dearest friend, she 
speaks of it, and says, ''The little spring, bubbling 
' forth with its clear, crystal stream, made my heart 
dance with as much pleasure as when, in my 
childish days, I used to seek out just such spots, 
and exult in their beauty." 



MEMOIR. 29 

Charlotte's school-days were ended when she 
was at the age of fourteen, and w-ere followed by 
toil-days, for we find her in the bindery at the age 
of fifteen. Effectually did she keep herself free 
from the foolish whims of a large class of minds, 
that imagine labor and literary pursuits are utterly 
uncongenial. Her employment was ''folding and 
gathering," and like labors, in a book-bindery. 
Her mind thought, while her hands were busied ; 
and she often kept a pencil and paper near her. 
A portion of her regular labor was in connection 
with the Ladies' Repository^ a literary and reli- 
gious monthly of the Universalist denomination; 
and she thus had courage kindled to attempt some- 
thing for the press, as she became familiar with 
the merits of some articles which, doubtless, she 
felt she could equal, and with others that made 
her aspire after like excellence. 

That the mind of Charlotte, at this early period 
of life, was not uninterested in the gravest subjects 
of thought, is evident from the themes she chose 
for her earliest compositions, and the manner of 
treatment. To this may be added a singular spec- 
ulation, into which she entered with considerable 
interest, concerning the preexistence of souls, and 
their condition after death. The death of the 
father so idolized by her, impressed her with the 
mystery of death, and, unguided, her imagination 
speculated without data. She fashioned to herself 
a theory of the preexistence of souls, and that death 
was but one of a series of changes, essential to 
progress to higher and yet higher life. When she 



30 MEMom. 

met a stranger whose countenance impressed her 
and seemed familiar, she fancied she must have 
met him in some previous state of being ; and any 
unusual elevation of thotight or feeling was the 
reviving of forgotten lore ; so that when she pon- 
dered what, to her, were ''shadowy recollections," 
she could say with the poet, that they 

" Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing." 

We meet no traces of these ideas after she passed 
her sixteenth year ; but we do meet many refer- 
ences to death and eternity, which express the 
confidence of love, and the patient waiting of faith. 
The years of girlhood were now passed, and she 
began to enter into woman's estate. At this time, 
as editor of the Repository^ we received a commu- 
nication — a story — written in a superior style 
of penmanship, and requiring not a pen-touch to 
prepare it for the printer. It bore the signature 
of " Charlotte." It reminded us of the first article 
from "S. C. E. ;" and we felt that a new star had 
dawned, and expressed the feeling of pleasure at 
beholding its rising, and the beauty of its light. 
We continued to receive like favors, and no means 
were afforded us of discovering the writer. Some- 
times they would be found on the publisher's 
counter; at other times, a stranger boy would 
bring them in, and all his story was that "a young 
lady, up-street, asked him to take that paper into 
the store." We began to find, in our experience, 
that all curiosity was hot confined to the feminine 



MEMOIR. 31 

of human kind, and we were really eager to dis- 
cover who ^'Charlotte" was, as was our printer, 
who wanted to make acknowledgments for such 
''splendid copy." A little incident favored us. 
The anniversary of a charitable society was to 
take place the coming Sabbath, and an original 
hymn for the occasion was desired by the man- 
agers, and they had promise of one from a mem- 
ber. As the publisher of the Repository^ to whom 
the printing was committed, was passing from his 
store into the bindery where Charlotte wrought, 
a note was put into his hand, and he opened 
it as he entered the room, expecting to find the 
occasional hymn, but found, in its stead, an apol- 
ogy for not writing it. ''This is too bad!" he 
exclaimed ; and some three or four young women 
turned, with ready sympathies, to know what 
great grief had come to him. He told them the 
import of the note, and said, jestingly, "Why can't 
one of you write me a hymn?" One of them 
replied, "How long a time will you give us 7" 
"Till twelve o'clock," was the answer, the speaker 
not imagining, in the least, that there was any 
seriousness in the question, as he had little acquaint- 
ance with them. When the bindery-girls left for 
the noon repast, one of them came into his store, 
and brought a paper, with a hymn pencilled on it, 
and timidly offered it for acceptance for the occa- 
sion required. She had composed it while at work, 
and, verse after verse, she had committed it to 
paper. It may be found in this volume, page 133. 
After the writer of it had left the store, Mr. T. read 



32 MEMOIR. 

• 

the hymn again, and the handwriting struck him 
as familiar. He went to the printer's, — found one 
of " Charlotte's" manuscripts, — and identified the 
writer as the composer of the hymn. Thus dis- 
covered, she owned at once the authorship of the 
communications for the Repository over the signa- 
ture of " Charlotte," and the hymn was ushered 
forth with her whole name, as though the discovery 
must be published at once. 

It is a critical time when first a sensitive and 
timid soul is known as "a writer." Intimate 
friends look upon the familiar face as though some 
new revelation was made there. Some wonder; 
others admire ; and yet others question the possi- 
bility of the fact, hastening to look over all the 
hymn-books within reach, to see if the hymn 
''written for the occasion" is not in some of them. 
Never more can she write as when veiled in ob- 
scurity. The person is known; and the writer 
fears, as she moves her pen, the criticism that 
would never be dreaded while she was unknown. 

We availed ourself of the first opportunity to 
introduce ourself to the discovered ''Charlotte," to 
whom, through the Repository^ we had said many 
encouraging things. We had felt a religious in- 
terest in her from discovering that, while unknown 
to us, she had attended public worship wherever 
we chanced to officiate in Boston or its immediate 
vicinity. We first met her in the bindery, engaged 
busily in folding "signatures" of the Repository, 
and were charmed with the perfect simplicity of 
her deportment. She lost no time, at our request, 



MEMOIR. 33 

in folding, while we conversed, and the unpretend- 
ing frankness of her speech and look let us at once 
into her estimable character. We saw then — 
what was only the more clearly revealed in after 
time — that the cheerful and vivacious aspect 
which she wore was but as the stream that spark- 
ling flows above the deep and strong river, holding 
its course steadily to the solemn sea. Her conversa- 
tion was the speech of one who would be agreeable 
to her friends, that friendly feeling might increase, 
but which, at the same time, had a vein of deep 
thoughtfulness, that made known the richness of 
the interior character. She felt aspirings that she 
could not gratify. She was environed with the 
necessity to toil, and toil brought weariness, and 
weariness unfitted the mind for intellectual effort 
when it would fain struggle and be free. The 
beautiful inducements flowing out of the pride 
which others take in the efforts of the one they 
deem "gifted," and to whom they would give 
every facility to develop their talent, were not 
liers. Few, very few, Avho imagine their lot hard, 
and no opportunities afforded them ''to be any- 
thing," are less favored than was she when she 
fixed her purpose and made her first efforts. She 
had the character that ventures where the soul 
points the way, and seemed to know what Sidney 
Smith has so well expressed where he says : "A 
great deal of talent is lost to the world for the want 
of a little courage. Every day sends to their graves 
a number of obscure men who have only remained 
in obscurity because their timidity has prevented 
3 



34 MEMOIR. 

them from making a first effort ; and who, if they 
could only have been induced to begin, would in 
all probability have gone great lengths in the career 
of fame." She had courage to do, and patience to 
wait to see what would come of her doing. If her 
own soul grew and expanded — if her appreciation 
of intellectual life increased — if existence had a 
deeper and a broader meaning to her, and she en- 
tered more into the great possibilities of time and 
effort, — the reward was sufficient. Her hand con- 
tinued to fold the printed sheets for the reader 
which contained the good thoughts her hand had 
written. When all other opportunities were denied 
her to ''compose," to express her thoughts by put- 
ting ''the best words in the best places," she 
would chase sleep from her eyelids, as she lay in 
bed in the deep night, and yield herself to repose 
only when some poem was wrought out, to be com- 
mitted to paper at early morn. She was at this 
time a member of a rehgious choir; and the blank 
Ifeaves of the hymn and music books abounded 
with the thoughts of the preacher, thrown into 
measured lines. "I would not live alway," and 
"I know that my Redeemer liveth," were written 
in this manner. Her Sabbaths were days of re- 
freshment ; 

" Care's balm and bay; — 
The week were dark but for their light, — 
Their torch did show the way." 

Her way was now open to form those acquaint- 
ances and friendships which aided her in her up- 
ward life. But before we pass to these, an incident 
in this period of her life may be referred to, as indi- 



MEMOIR. 35 

cative of that hidden depth of serious thought and 
feeling which was covered by a wondrous vivacity. 
She was for a while quite ill, and unable to pursue 
her usual employment; a friend was so circum- 
stanced that he could with propriety take her in 
his carriage to ride amid those rural beauties which 
first woke her infant wonder and delight. The 
usual route led through Cambridge to Mount Au- 
burn ; and amid the solemn shades of that beautiful 
cemetery she found the balm of nature's sweet min- 
istry. One day, when she had been some time 
riding through the beautiful paths, she broke the 
spell of silence that had rested upon her, and said, 
"If I could only know that I should be buried 
here J my greatest wish would be answered." Her 
friend was surprised that her thoughts should run 
on her own death ; but discovering there was some- 
thing more than a mere passing fancy in her words, 
he said, " Do you think you would be any happier 
were you to be assured you should be buried here 
when you die? " '^ O yes, indeed I should ! " was 
her reply. Her friend then assured her that her 
request should be granted, — that if he outlived 
her, he would personally see to the fulfilment of 
his promise; and if .he should die before her, he 
would leave a written provision to be executed by 
a faithful agent. This seemed too much to be- 
lieve; and again and again she asked, ''Are you 
serious?" and when assured of the perfect serious- 
ness and sincerity of the promise, an inexpressible 
happiness shone in her countenance, and the day 
was brighter because of the inward joy. She often 



36 MEMOIK. 

referred to it with grateful happiness. Her body • 
rests where her thoughts so often turned. The 
promise has been personally fulfilled. \ 

No evidence can be found that she ever antici- 
pated a much longer life than she lived ; and is it 
not beautiful to see the tokens of persistent en- 
deavors after the best culture, while in the heart 
were prophecies of early death ! Some of her earli- 
est compositions turn on the blessedness of dying 
young, while the freshness of existence is still en- 
joyed, and the dewy leaves have not been touched 
with the autumnal frost. And we may say of her, 
as has been said of a kindred spirit : — 

" Thy labor in the vineyard closed, 
Long ere the noontide sun ; 
i The dews still glistened on the leaves 

When thy short task was done." 

But little more than three years form the period 
of hei: life as a writer for the public eye; and to 
this brief space we owe the promises which made 
us anticipate in her one of the most finished writers 
among the women of our country. All her contri- 
butions were confined to the periodicals of her own 
religious denomination ; for the idea of notoriety or 
fame never flitted before her mind. i 

When she became known as the writer over the 
signature of "Charlotte," a friendship of the most 
intimate and Christian character was formed 
between her and Miss S. C. Edgarton. There 
were many affinities of mind and character in 
these friends, and whatever of dissimilarity ex- 
isted only served to make them the better able to 



MEMOIR. 37 

assist each other in their endeavors after wholeness 
of cultilre. Their correspondence was frequent, 
and their visits to each others' home were of the 
hap])iest character. With the same love of nature, 
and the same religion ; the same circle of personal 
friends and correspondents ; the same hearty inter- 
est in the diifering phases of life and experience ; 
the same love of mental and moral improvement, 
and the same readiness to receive thankfully all 
healthy and innocent pleasures, they grew more 
like each other ; and, as though a symbol of this 
was to be given, their handwriting became remark- 
ably similar, and we have more than once been 
deceived by the similarity. 

No one who has read the beautiful "Memoir" 
of Mrs. S. C. Edgarton Mayo can fail to have been 
interested to know more of the "Lottie" so affec- 
tionately spoken of in the extracts from Mrs, 
Mayo's correspondence. The writer of that "Me- 
moir" says, justly, that "The freshness and sin- 
cerity of Charlotte's nature at once gained the heart 
of her friend. Her sparkling humor and quick 
perception of the ludicrous, were an additional 
attraction to one who was all her life a most de- 
voted disciple to the religion of wit and mirth ; 
while a congeniality of literary pursuits added the 
last bond necessary to cement the happy union of 
hearts. Sarah also was the elder, and in many 
things the adviser of Charlotte. Their correspond- 
ence is beautifully characteristic, and a model of 
a high, sincere intercourse between friends possess- 
ing the rare charm of discussing the most common 
3* 



38 MEMOIR. 

details of news and domestic life, in a spirit and 
taste as far removed from the sentimental as the 
prosaic." Sarah recognized in her friend "talents 
of a superior order, and that were constantly de- 
veloping themselves with time;" and how much 
she prized the friendship of Charlotte is seen in the 
many affectionate references to her to be met with 
in the " Memoir," and in the " Gossipings of Idle 
Hours," among the prose selections in the same 
volume. To be so loved by one of the most pure- 
hearted and gifted, places a high estimate on the 
character of Charlotte. A beautiful allusion to the 
newness of the friendship is thus made in one of 
Sarah's letters : — 

Your very kind letters have both been received, and read 
with more than usual interest. I do love your warm, free 
heart, that dispenses so liberally of its sweet treasures to one 
who prizes affection above all other earthly gifts. I have not 
been unmindful of you, although my time has been hitherto so 
fully occupied as to leave me no opportunity to answer your 
first good letter. Your pleasant face is before me often in my 
busiest moments ; it mingles with my sweetest visions ; it is a 
new and welcome star in the sky of my heart, whence some 
have already gone down, and others glimmer and grow pale. 
Long beam it brightly there, to cheer my hours of sadness, and 
guide me on to fountains of happiness and strength ! 

The double view of Charlotte's character, to 
which we have referred, was had by her friend. 
How she felt the contagion of her mirth, and ap- 
preciated the spontaneousness of her gayety, are 
seen by her own. language. Once, writing after 
Charlotte had returned to her home from a visit to 
Shirley Village, she says : — 



MEMOIR, 39 

Do you have any good laughs, now a-days? I am afraid 
my face will grow sharp and elongated, if you do not come 
soon to throw into it the reflection of your own merry humor. 
Somehow or other, there does not seem to be anything to 
make fun of here ; and unless I have some one to help me, 1 
seldom get into much of a frolic. Here I sit, from morning 
till night, — no, I don't sit all the while, but stay, — doing 
nothing in the world more comical than washing dishes, 
sweeping floors, eating, drinking, and scribbling. Once in a 
while, sisters and I have a funny time ; but we have to use the 
same thing over so many times, we wear it all out before any- 
thing new suggests itself. I think, if you were here, you might 
keep us in new ideas. 

But she also had looked into the deeper places 
of her friends' nature, and therefore she could 
write : 

Memory has certainly its pleasures, and it has as surely 
its pains. Some hearts, dear Lottie, are smitten by an early 
blight, that tinges the very latest hour of a long life with 
regret ; and some live to three-score years and ten without 
being doomed to look back upon any crushing sorrow, or any 
fiery ordeal that seared them as they passed. But very few 
are there, however, who pass the mid-day of life, and find 
much of its morning brightness left. O my friend ! how early 
does it behoove us to find some strength that shall not fail us 
through all life's seasons of weakness ! What shall we do, if 
we lose friends, health and earthly hope, unless we have some 
place of refuge in the love of God 1 Strong, indeed, must we 
build our faith, to withstand the assaults of a whole life's sor- 
rows ; yet, by pious effort, we seldom fail to acquire that true 
and abiding confidence in God which will sustain us under any 
burden of affliction ; and surely, you know, Lottie, how much 
the acquisition is worth. 

A singular instance of unity of thought between 
these friends, and that led to the best expression 



40 MEMOIR. 

of their similarity of poetic feeling and religious 
tone, is given in the series of Sonnets on the Lord's 
Prayer, written by them. Each had written a 
sonnet on a portion of the prayer, unknown to the 
other, with the intention of composing a series; and 
when published, the suggestion came from Sarah 
that they should write on alternate portions of that 
Prayer, and thus mutually form a series of son- 
nets. This was done; they were completed in 
1844, and we cannot but present them here, as a 
touching and exquisite memorial of spiritual unity 
in two Christian friends. Their initials af&xed 
will individualize the compositions : — 

I. 

" Our Father ! rvho art in Heaven." 
Father in Heaven ! how many hearts are breathing 

That hallowed name, with reverent lips, to-night, 
On southern plains where graceful vines are wreathing, 

Or on some lofty snow-clad Alpine height ! 
The lonely dweller on the rugged mountain, 

The mariner upon the trackless sea, 
The peasant maiden by the wildwood fountain, 

And childhood lisping at its mother's knee, 
All breathe, alike, the beautiful petition 

To Thee, " Our Father lojio in Heaven art;^' 
And Thou dost own, most blessed recognition ! 

The tie between Thee and each human heart ! 
Thy children ! may we ever strive to be 
Worthy, Our Father ! of that name and Thee ! 

C. A. J. 

II. 

" Hallowed be thy name." 

Hallowed, ay, hallowed ! not alone in prayer, 
But in our daily thoughts and daily speech ; 

At altar and at hearthstone — everywhere 
That temple-priest or home-apostles preach. 



MEMOIR. 41 

O not by words alone, but by our deeds, 

And by our faith, and hope, and spirit's flame. 
And by the nature of our private creeds, 

We hallow best, and glorify, Thy Name. 
Nature doth hallow it. In every star. 

And every flower, and leaf, and leaping wave, 
She praises Thee, who, from thy realm afar, 

Such stores of beauty to this fair earth gave. 
But these alone should not thy love proclaim — 
Our hearts, our souls respond — " J.Z/ hallowed he thy Name" 

S. C. E. 

III. 
" Thy kingdom comeP 

Where shall thy kingdom come 1 In halls of state, 

Or old cathedrals, where the mighty throng — 
Where mitred priests in robes of purple wait, 

And pealing organs chant the lofty song? 
Where shall thy kingdom come ? In cloisters dim. 

Where the pale nun in adoration bends. 
While with the music of her vesper hymn 

Some fond regret or cherished memory blends ? 
Or in the dwelling of the lowly poor. 

Where humble hopes and meek affections spring ! 
There shall the dove of peace, her wanderings o'er, 

A.t length find shelter for her weary wing ! 
Where shall thy kingdom come 1 Is not thy throne 
Within the humble, contrite soul alone? c. a. j. 

IV. 

" Thy will be done in Earth as it is in Heaven^ 

O beautiful and bright that world must be. 

Where life is but the doing of God's will ! 

Could we on earth as perfectly fulfil 
Thy holy law, we, also, should be free ! 
For angels are not happier than are we. 

When in our hearts we take our Father's name^ 

And with a resolute and steady aimj 



42 MEMOIR. 

Make all our deeds with His high will agree. 
Father ! we love our land of human birth, 

Which Thou to us for a brief home hast given ; 
We love this beautiful and fair young earth, 

And fain would make it like our home in Heaven. 
! one thing more we truly need — hut one ; 
That here, as in yon Heaven — Thy holy will be done ! 

s. c. E. 

V. 

''Give us this day our daily "bread P 

O God our Father ! from thy throne on high, 

Amid the melody of harps divine. 
Wilt Thou not listen to thy children's cry. 

Borne on prayer-incense to Thy holy shrine ? 
Father, we hunger ! As we faltering tread 

The rugged pathway through life's wilderness, 
O " give to us each our daily bread ;" 

Strengthen our footsteps as we onward press ! 
Thou who of old thy mercy didst declare 

To Israel, wandering in the desert land. 
Turn not away from this our fervent prayer. 

Nor let our frailties stay thy gracious hand, — 
Thou who with blessings makest each day rife. 
Give to our fainting souls the bread of life ! c. a. j. 

VI. 

"■forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors^ 

In our hard march through life, we may have offered 

A friendly hand to some poor fainting brother, 
And in our turn have failed, and no one proffered 

The aid we lent so freely to another. 
We may have lived a life of cheerful duty, 

Have gladly toiled and suffered for our neighbor, 
And aimed to fill his soul with moral beauty, 

Yet reapt but wrong and curses for our labor. 



MEMOIR. 43 

O, if these debts are from our souls forgiven, 

Not even asking penitent confession, 
Then, Father, wilt thou from thy throne in Heaven 

Bend down and kindly pardon our transgression ; 
But if we pardon not, can we petition 
The unerring God of Heaven to give our sin remission ? 

S. C. E. 

VII. 

"Lead us not into temptation." 

From the low hut where Poverty contendeth 

Bravely with Vice, the sumptuously fed, 
While from his heart an anguish wail ascendeth. 

As weak young voices vainly cry for bread ! — 
From the proud soul that burneth for dominion 

Over the mighty universe of Mind ; 
That fain would soar away on eagle-pinion, 

Leaving life's tame realities behind ; — 
And from the beauty-dowered, in humble station, 

Who for the world's gay pageants vainly sighs, — 
From Hagar maddened by her desolation, — 

Trom every poor, frail heart this prayer should rise : 
" Suffer us not to fall into temptation !" 

Lead us, oh Father, where our duty lies ! c. a. j. 

VIII. 

" But deliver us from evil." 

Ere down the purple West the sunbeams sink, 

How many a snare may lurk around our way ! 
How oft our trembling feet upon the brink 

Of Passion's stream unconsciously may stray ! 

O Father ! at thy feet we humbly pray 
That from its burning waves we may not drink ! 
Most temptingly it gushes o'er our track. 

Flashing like jewels 'neath our eager eyes ; 
O place thine arm arOund us ! Draw us back ! 

For he who drinks that deadly water, dies. 



44 MEMOIR. 

Thou Father, thou alone hast those supplies 

Which renovate and satisfy the soul ; 

From thy great Spirit like a tide they roll, 

And every heart may come and fill its golden bowl. 

s. c. E. 

IX. 

" For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever. 

Anient 

Thine is the Kingdom, Everlasting God ! 

In all thy works thy sovereignty is shown ; 
Justice and Mercy wait upon thy nod. 

And Truth upholds the pillars of thy throne. 
Thine is the power, to tame the rebel-heart, 

To make the serpent gentle as the dove ; 
Comfort and Peace, and Wisdom to impart, 

And to do all things by thy wondrous Love ! 
Thine is the glory, not of earthly kings ; 

Not Thine their empty pomp and poor renown, 

But with Thy Goodness the empyrean rings ; 

Love is thy sceptre, — Love thy glorious crown. 
While earthly thrones return to dust again. 
Thine shall endure forevermOre — Amen ! c. a. j. 

The allusions to these labors, in this correspond- 
ence, are striking evidences of the deference 
which love pays to the seemingly better deeds of 
its object, — the one admiring the sonnet of the 
other, and, without a particle of affectation, indi- 
rectly encouraging the other to nobler effort. 

A sportive example of their unity was thus given. 
On her birth-day, when Charlotte was twenty- 
three years of age, she dashed off an "Impromptu 
Epistle to S. C. E.," written " in fifteen minutes, 
including copying." It is the only instance of her 



MEMOIR. 45 

employing in her poetry the faculty that made so 
much mirth in conversation. It was replied to 
with the same spontaneous sportiveness. Both 
were published in the eleventh volume of the 
Repository. 

Turning back to the close of the year 1841, we 
meet with Charlotte's first prose publication. Pre- 
vious to this, she had published some few pieces 
of poetry of a personal character, but this was the 
real beginning of her literary life, and was her first 
composition of the kind. It was entitled '• Emma 
Beaumont," and exalted the spirit of self-sacrifice 
in the daughter. Her pictures of life and charac- 
ter, from the first to the last, were alVays drawn 
from the world of fact; and we remember that 
with her second story, '' Margaret Leslie," came 
a note, stating that the enclosed story was founded 
on facts, the heroine having been personally known 
to her, and. in her school days a dear friend. Her 
contributions to the Repository became now quite 
frequent, — every issue presented something from 
her pen, and our estimation of her efforts was 
made known in the notices to correspondents. 
The incident of discovery to which we have 
referred made her now known to us, and per- 
mitted us to make her personally known to a circle 
of friends. A new existence now dawned on 
Charlotte. She was brought into a society she 
was fitted to ornament and enjoy. Acquaintance 
ripened speedily into friendship, and friendship 
partook of the best elements of perpetuity. She 
felt what a world of feeling, sympathy and aspi- 
4 



46 MEMOIR. 

ration, lies hidden within the soul, waiting the bid- 
ding of the appropriate power to call it forth. 
Timid, weighed down by the small estimate she 
formed of herself, and looking with an artist's 
eye on superior works in the line of her effoMs, she 
needed the help of natures on which she could lean 
in trustfulness, and to which she could look up for 
confidence. To feel that ours is the friendship of 
the wise and good, — to fiind them opening to us the 
rich stores of their well-freighted minds, as though 
we could appreciate the treasures they presented, 
— gives to the shrinking and fearful a confidence in 
themselves, by making them feel the powers thus 
addressed. It was thus with her. She had friends 
she reverenced. They were to her the wise and 
good. She felt the influence of their presence, 
their conversation, their letters. Instinctively, her 
nature was richly developed, and ere she hardly 
knew of the change, she was intimate with them, 
and poured out the affluence of her soul with per- 
fect and beautiful frankness and simplicity. She 
won upon her friends by this perfect freedom from 
affectation. She greatly disliked everything that 
bore any likeness to aflected speech or manner; 
and nothing excited more overwhelmingly the 
sense of the ludicrous than the mask of ceremony 
worn where simple nature should only be seen. No 
matter where the mockery was seen, whether at 
church or in the parlor, incongruities were ludi- 
crous; and we may be sure that in this case a 
true sense of the absurd was accompanied by an 
acute perception of order and harmony. Not from 



MEMOIR. 47 

lightness of feeling, but because of a profound 
reverence for religion, she was moved to irresist- 
ible mirth whenever stiff and starched ceremony 
came where only nature belonged. 

A touching proof of an equal readiness to see 
moral harmonies and to commend them, is given 
in a letter to a clerical friend : 

I can hardly believe that ever time hangs heavy on your hands ; 
for you have many and vast sources of enjoyment, in reading-, 
writing, and visiting the people of your charge, — in " rejoicing 
with those who rejoice, and weeping with those who weep," 
— in relieving the poor, in ministering comfort to the weak, 
and lighting the path of the dying through the valley of shad- 
ows. These, and similar offices of kindness and love, are 
the province and the privilege of the Christian minister, and 
leave him little leisure for vain regrets. 

And, as though she would reiterate what she 
regarded as the deepest sources of the most perma- 
nent happiness, she refers in the same letter to a 
friend about to enter the marriage state, and says : 

I rejoice in the prospect of his happiness. Richly does he 
deserve every blessing that has been or shall be lavished upon 
him ; he has diffused sunshine in many a darkened heart, and 
may its beams long gladden his own; he has caused the 
widow's heart to sing for joy, and the blessings of the father- 
less shall be music in his ears. 

And how she loved a straight-forward plainness, 
is seen in a passage in one of her letters to S. C. E., 
(1843,) in which she speaks of the venerable Rev. 
S. Streeter, of Boston : 

T saw a beautiful poem of yours in the Trumpet j a few 



48 MEMOIH. 

weeks since, called a " Scene at the Convention.^^ That ex- 
pression of Father Streeter's is the most thrilling I ever 
remember to have heard used, at such a time, and in such a 
place. I think the effect must have been great. He is a 
favorite of mine. I like his earnestness, his straight-forward 
simplicity, and his devotion to the cause of truth. I hear him 
sometimes at the Wednesday evening conferences, and it is 
really refreshing, after having listened to many young speakers' 
expositions of a Scripture passage, (sometimes far-fetched 
enough,) to hear Mr. Streeter rise and bring the matter to a 
point at once, without any labored sentences, or any straining 
after effect. He sometimes makes his audience smile ; but if 
he does, the next word is sure to be so solemn that you are in 
tears ere you are aware. I wish I could give you the substance 
of- some remarks he made at a meeting, some two or three 
weeks since ; but I should only mangle them in the attempt, — 
so I will forbear. The subject was the " Resurrection State," 
and you can imagine, better than I can describe, the beauty of 
his remarks. 

She longed to convince her friends of her double 
nature. Her sensitiveness to the ludicrous she 
frankly owned, and while writing of the rich 
enjoyment she received when drinking in the beau- 
ty and healthiness of rural summer resort, with a 
heart open to the grandest meaning of all the love- 
liness and majesty of nature's chief glories, she 
would deal honestly with herself, and tell of the 
comical shape into which human nature is some- 
times thrown, by picturing the cow-boy who passed 
her window every morning, full of the sharp angles 
which do not contribute to beauty of form. She 
confesses her besetting evil genius, when, in a letter 
to a friend, she writes : 



MEMOIR. 4^ 

YoTi Speak of being annoyed at times by your mirthful feel- 
ings ; do you ever feel disposed to laugh at a funeral, when 
some doleful-looking face is upturned to yours 1 I have had 
my risibles so excited at such solemn places that I have been 
heartily ashamed of myself, I would give anything sometimes 
to repress my mirth. 

The consciousness of this tendency made her 
suspicious that the friends whose esteem she coveted 
thought her too light of heart. To one of these, 
whOj she feared, regarded her as frivolous, she 
writes : 

You have yet to learn that far down in the depths of my 
heart is a fountain of earnest, serious yeeZm^, which gushes 
up now and then with resistless power, and fills my whole 
being with warm, glowing, devotional impulses. I have, I 
think and trust, been made wiser and better by my acquaint- 
ance with you — by your words, and by your example. Many 
things which you have said, half in jest and half in earnest, as 
if it were a waste of serious words to lavish them upon me, I 
have carefully treasured up ; and I often ponder them, and feel 
that I am purified and made better by their influence. But I 
am too egotistical. I will try and put little /upon the shelf 
for a while. 

How naturally she received the solemn import 
of a glad festival is seen in a letter written on the 
evening of the " Thanksgiving" of the year 1842. 

She writes to "S. C. E.": 

'T is Thanksgiving night, and to prove to you that 1 remem- 
ber you with affection, I have sat down to write you a letter, 
even though it be a short one. I have passed a pleasant day 
in-doors, despite the gloom without — for I never remember so 
dark and drizzly a festival — a little snow, and a great deal of 
wind and rain. It has doubtless disappointed many who had 
4* 



60 MEMOIR. 

laid plans for amusement abroad, and I am sprry for them ; but, 
for my own part, I have had quite as much enjoyment in our 
small circle as if the skies had been ever so blue. I have 

thought of you, dear S , many times to-day, and fancied how 

you looked, and what you were doing, and hoped you were 
having a glad Thanksgiving. I wish you were here; and we 
would sit down on the hearth-rug before a bright coal-fire, and 
have such a nice, cosy gossip. You know that is my favorite 

seat. But, speaking of fires, dear S , do you not love better 

the ample, old-fashioned fireplaces, and the great w^ood-fires, 
than the grates and stoves of more modern times ? I confess a 
strong partiality for the former ; there is something so social, 
so enlivening, in watching the bright wavy flames, the curling 
smoke, and in hearing the old log crackle and hiss — and then 
to have a cheerful group collected around the said fire, chatting 
and laughing merrily, and bidding defiance to the wrath of the 
storm-king without — is it not a pleasant picture? 

In the winter of this year, 1842, she derived 
great benefit from a course of lectures which she 
attended, delivered by Dana, the poet, on Woman, 
Macbeth, Shakspeare in the Supernatural, and 
Hamlet. These quickened her perceptions of the 
higher qualities of literature, and sent her to the 
reading of Shakspeare, Spenser and Milton, with 
a new ardor, and to great profit. 

In December, she writes again to her friend at 
Shirley village, and gives her a veritable ''ghost 
story:" 

I did not intend to write to thee again till my last epistle had 
been answered ; but, foi- the last vreek, thy face has been con- 
tinually before me, and I have been haunted, night and day, by 
a pair of black eyes gazing into mine with most provoking 
pertinacity ; and so I must write perforce, whether I please or 
not, hoping thereby to escape such impertinent surveillance. 



MEMOIR. 51 

I forget what your views are, on the subject of Animal Mag- 
netism — but I am very sure there must be a sort of spiritual 
magnetism between us, — else, whence cometh this vision? 

I would you were by my side, dear S , that I might talk to 

you of the thousand-and-one "thick-coming fancies" which 
are now flitting before my mind's eye ; but as that cannot 
be, I must content myself with gossiping to you on paper. 
You know you -like ^'gossipings.''^ And first of all, I want to 
know if you are superstitious in the least : but then I know 
you must be r— for we agree in almost everything, and as I am 
a little tinctured with that weakness, I insist that you shall 
share it with me. So now for my story. T am going to tell 
***^ou, in confidence, of an event which has happened, (or rather 
a combination of events,) in a certain family in B. In a cer 
tain square, lives a young man who keeps a livery stable, 
and this establishment and his dwelling are connected. Some 
four years ago, this man, whom I shall call Foster, married a 
young and rather pretty girl from the country, and brought her 
home to live with his step-mother and sisters. The year suc- 
ceeding their marriage, she became the mother of a little girl, 
who remained the only child. Mrs. Foster was not very happy 
in her situation, and soon after the birth of her child, her 
health began to decline, till, about a year ago, her physicians 
pronounced her to be in a decline. Her husband took her to 
the Springs, and to every place that he was recommended, and 
every means was used to restore her, but in vain. When told 
that she must die, you cannot imagine the misery which the 
intelligence produced. She wept, raved, and declared that she 
could not, would not die, — that she could not leave her husband 
and child. She was a member of the church, and the minister 
came to pray with and comfort her ; but she refused all conso- 
lation, and died in extreme agony, still clinging to earth, and 
declaring with her last breath that she could not die ! Since 
Mrs. F.'s death, a woman came to the stable to get a carriage, 
and in passing the kitchen door of the house, said to the black 
woman who lives with the Fosters, " I thought Mrs. F. was 
dead." " So she is," replied the woman ; " why did you ask]" 



52 MEMom. 

" Because," was the answer, " I am very sure that she passed 
me as I came in, and entered the front door." The cook had 
previously to this averred that Mrs. F. had passed her on the 
stairs at night, and entered her (Mrs. F.'s) chamber. A sister 
of Mr..F., whom we will call Mary, and who had heard these 
stories, and laughed at them, was taken rather unwell ; and as 
her deceased sister-in-law's chamber was more commodious 
than her own, had a fire built in it, and expressed her intention 
of staying there till she recovered. The first night she occupied 
the room, she had just gone to bed, when she heard some one 
moving about the room, and opening the bureau drawer. She 
listened a moment, and the' same movements continued, and 
she cried out to her brothers. They came in with lights, and 
searched the room ; but no one was there. However, Mary 
was so much alarmed that she left the room, and has never 
entered it since. But the strangest part of the story is this : 
the two youngest children of a friend of mine, who lives in 
the same house, have been sedulously kept from hearing these 
stories; and the other day they were playing in the yard, when 
one of them looked up to a window, and instantly directed the 
other's attention to what she saw. " There is Mrs. F. at the 
window," she exclaimed ; and running to her father, who was 
busy at a little distance, she tried to make him look up. He 
paid no attention, but the children persisted that Mrs. F. was 
at the window, leaning forward, and looking up. Is not this a 

real ghost story, S 1 I have heard that a lady who believes 

in and practises mesmerism says, that when a person dies, 
the spirit still lingers about the body, as long as it retains any 
semblance of the deceased, and haunts the places it used to 
frequent. If this be true, I know not why the spirit of Mrs. 
F. should not be disposed to linger around the home she was so 
loth to leave. I want to know what you think about all this. 

But to this eventful year belong other import- 
ant events — important because of their results, 
though classed among the common things of friend- 
ly intercourse. She passed a week in liowell. 



MEMOIR. 53 

Mass., that seems to have given a perpetual beauty 
to all after time. It was spent in company with 
S. C. E.j at the home of Rev. T. B. Thayer, and 
his venerable mother. Every day and hour seems 
to have conveyed as much real happiness as was 
possible for them to receive. The frequent refer- 
ences to the delights of the time — the ecstasy of 
the mere memory of those golden days, and the effect 
on the character of Charlotte — make us eager 
to know something of the sources of their enjoy- 
ment. And these we find to be — not the pleas- 
ures of hilarious dissipation, the round of parties, 
company, shows, concerts, and the like; but the 
inexpensive, the healthy and refined enjoyments of 
home delights; conversation, reading, and rural 
walks. We cannot read the letters which make 
enthusiastic references to this memorable week, 
without remarking how little it takes to make 
souls happy, when they are devoted to each others' 
good ; what small and common things impart the 
highest relish to existence, and how all the voices 
of the day pour into the heart a meaning that inter- 
ests it more in the real good of this life. "The 
Memorial of Happy Days" (page 141) refers to 
this time, and its tone and thought tell us of pleas- 
ures as rapturous as the heart may know on 
earth, and that leave no sting behind. 

There was a preeminent association connected 
with this memorable week, which gave it a very 
sacred interest. It was a time when Charlotte not 
only found a new and exquisite life of friendship, 
— a beautiful culture to long-hidden sympathieSj 



54 MEMOIR. 

— an expression for aspirations that had lived 
voiceless in the heart — but it was also a time when 
the will was consecrated by an act of solemn im- 
port. She then, for the first time, became a com- 
municant at the table of the Lord. To her it was 
a great event. The all of her poetic being was 
poured out into the act, to give it a thrilling, sub- 
duing, and yet elevating meaning ; and in the 
poem, " The First Communion," (page 144,) she 
afterward gave utterance to her feelings. The true 
communicant is necessarily a poet. He sees the 
spiritual import of material things. He reads the 
symbolical language of the rite. It is no mere 
ceremony to him, but the showing of the Lord's 
death. The intent, the significance, throws a 
glory over the material aspect, as the sun lights up 
the forest, and it becomes a temple, and not mere 
woods. Thus was the Communion to her. It 
was the hour of the soul's baptism; and the dove 
of peace that then descended never left her, but 
often, in times of solitude and meditation, fluttered 
about her, to Avaken a more absorbing remembrance 
of the hour of self-consecration. 

Most fortunate for her was the peculiar method 
of the church with which she first communed. 
There were no stiff formalities to be observed ; no 
questionings; no holding the applicant at a distance 
by rules and regulations that pre-suppose a peculiar 
holiness in "the church," and that seem to threaten 
with a sort of martyrdom the timid pilgrim whose 
face is towards the table of the Master and Re- 
deemer. No; the simplicity of the early church 



MEMOIR. 55 

was there, exhibiting a touching trustfulness, and 
the unwillingness of true humility to set up obsta- 
cles in the way of the trembling traveller to the 
cross of Christ. They spread there, not the table 
of the church, but the table of the Lord. Had 
there been anything of the legal covenant, — any 
of man-made rules, that assume power, and then 
exercise it as though God- given, — she never would 
have been a communicant. That sacredly vivify- 
ing memory would never have been hers. The 
iron formalities, so in contrast with the ready and 
almost impulsive grasp of the fraternal hand in fel- 
lowship so beautiful in apostolic times, would 
have excited her sense of the ludicrous, while the 
unpretending simplicity of that fellowship which 
had its -'bond of unity" in the spirit of a gospel 
covenant won her inmost nature; and a more 
humble, and, in the apostolic sense, a more worthy 
disciple, never sat down at the memorial of Christ's 
death. Happy for her, that such a simplicity was 
to be met with ! The fellowship then granted to 
her made more sacred the bonds of former friend- 
ship. In a letter to a relative, she writes how 
much to her seems the friend who invited her to 
the table of the Lord; adding, "And even you, 

dear L , seem more like a sister than a cousin 

to me, since that same memorable day. How is it 
with you?" 

This act of consecration evidently answered her 
deepest need. She perpetually referred to the holi- 
ness of the time, and owned the effectiveness given 
by it to her religious convictions. But how did 



56 MEMOIR. 

she own this? Not hy descriptions of her emo- 
tions and feelings ; not by any attempt at the anat- 
omy of her experience, or analysis of her variable 
moods ; but by the ardent longing after moral 
excellence, and the ability to throw all the strength 
of her being into the channel of improvement. In 
the little and unpretending details of daily life, she 
showed the character of the efforts of her moral 
nature, as, in the humble estimation of her abili- 
ties as a writer, and her yearnings after something 
better, she showed the workings of her intellectual 
being. How humble her estimate of herself, as a 
writer, was, is seen by many passages in her let- 
ters; as thus: — 

I am oppressed by such a deadening weight of inferiority 
and want of talent, that I sometimes resolve to throw down my 
pen, and never give another article to the public, to be added 
to the already enormous and fast-increasing amount of literary 
nothings. Yet I have felt all those yearnings after intellectual 
power, which seem to have such an influence upon yourself; 
and though I make no foolish pretensions to an equality with 
yourself in point of talent, I can yet, in a measure, enter into 
your feelings. 

This made her thankful for the encouragements 
that came to her from sources whence she felt 
could come no flattery. To a friend she writes: — 

A thousand thanks, my dear friend, for your kindly com- 
mendations of my poems in the " Rose." From any one else, I 
should have been slightly jealous, fearing lest they should say 
more than tbey meant ; but your notice sounded like yourself — 
frank, earnest, and sincere. For this, and for many other like 
instances, — trivial, perhaps, in your estimation, but much, ■yery 
much, to me,— I thank you, most truly and cordially, and hope 



MEMOIR. 67 

I may be able, in some measure, to repay your good opinion 
of me by deserving it. 

To the same friend, at another time, she says: — 

I do want your candid opinion upon my articles. Though 
T do not pretend to be less sensitive than others to praise and 
blame, I am not so weak, I trust, as to receive with any ill- 
feeling any criticism, however harsh, upon my articles. I 
think your remarks upon my poor story, last year, did me 
much good, though, I confess, my vanity was slightly wounded 
at first ; but I am sure you will deal frankly and justly with 
me, and I shall place more confidence in what you say of the 
poems than in any or all other notices. Allow me to say 
here, — and, trust me, it is from no overweening love of appro- 
bation, or any sentiment of raock-modesty, that I do so, — that 
I fear you have over-rated my abilities and powers of mind. 
Still, I am truly grateful for your good opinion, and I will 
try, as far as I may, to deserve it. 

From Charlotte's writings and correspondence 
in 1843, we draw abundant evidence of a great 
growth of mind, a breadth of comprehensiveness 
that gave her access to a larger field of thought. 
She became acquairtted with several artists whose 
excellence is now acknowledged, and, aided by 
their conversations about Art, and their criticisms 
on paintings and sculpture, she became much inter- 
ested in visiting the studios of artists and galleries 
of paintings. She knew there was a wealth that, 
though it could not obtain possession of the ad- 
mired v7ork of art, could, nevertheless, have a 
copy, — the wealth of the imagination ; and by its 
potency she bore away the finest conceptions of 
genius, and in the "chamber of imagery" they 
were hers. She could not help expressing to her 
5 



58 MEMOIR. 

friends the pleasure thus obtained from brief mo- 
ments caught now and then from her toil ; and in 
her letters she describes graphically picture after 
picture. Once she took a whole day for this pic- 
ture-hunting, and enjoyed it as much as the many 
who give up home and spend their wealth in search- 
ing for "lovely spots" in the fashionable route of 
travel. How she had been confined to the city is 
seen from her letter to S. C. E., in March of this 
year : — 

I am actually longing for the sight and smell of violets. It 
is full three years since I have seen one, and when they are in 
bloom, do send me a cluster in the turf, so that they vi^ill not 
wither before I can get them. Will you do this 1 

Ere the violets bloomed, her wish for wild- flow- 
ers was answered, as she writes to another friend : — 

Yesterday, mine eyes were gladdened with a note from dear 

S , accompanied by a tin box, filled with — what do you 

guess? — flowers! wild anemones — the firstlings of the sea- 
son — from Bow Brook ; and a beautiful rose-bud ! It is long 
since I have seen any wild-flowers before, and I tried to be 
sentimental ; but I am not given that way. 

Flowers do indeed have a language, when they 
are thus used; and Charlotte made a return for 
them by sending to her friend a description of the 
flowers of Art. She writes : — 

I wish you had been with me last Wednesday. I spent 
the whole day in visiting artists' studios. I saw some very 
beautiful landscapes, painted from nature, by Hollingsworth, 
— the finest, I think, that I have ever seen. If I could paint 
such scenes as those, I am sure I could never bring myself to 
copying such uninteresting faces as he had in his study. 



MEMOIR. 59 

There was one, however, that I liked, — a picture of an old 
woman knitting, or rather taking up a stitch which she had 
dropped ; her mouth was pursed up, and there was a sturdy, 
determined expression on the face, which could belong to none 
but an English peasant. In Hewins' room were some fine old 
paintings ; one in particular pleased me very much. It is by 
one of the old masters, — I have forgotten his name, — and repre- 
sented two scenes ; or, rather, there was a division in the pic- 
ture, like two rooms. In one part was represented the cham- 
ber at Emmaus, where Christ's supped with the two or three 
disciples whom he met and conversed with as they were 
walking thither, after his resurrection ; while, in the lower 
apartment, various domestic offices were performed. Two or 
three female figures were employed in the kitchen ; some in 
preparing vegetables to boil, — the pot hanging over the fire 
for that purpose, — another was cleaning a large brass kettle, 
and still another was washing dishes. There was a deepness 
and richness of coloring, which we rarely see in modern pic- 
tures. But my space grows small, and I have not yet told you 
of the most delightful visit of all. I spent two hours in T. B. 
Read's room, and fell in love with one of his pictures. It is 
an embodiment of Coleridge's beautiful ideal, "Genevieve." 
I wish you could see it, Sarah, for it is the most beautiful 
creation of genius I ever beheld. Longfellow, the poet, says 
it is exactly his conception of Genevieve ; and I think it must 
have been something like Coleridge's, if he could have had so 
beautiful an image in his mind. I have written a short poet- 
ical description of it, which will appear in the Repository at 
some time, I suppose. It may give you some idea of the pic- 
ture, though any description must fail of presenting all its 
beauties. Read has a style of dressing. his ladies which I like ; 
that is, the drapery is modest. Genevieve is dressed in a 
green velvet bodice, laced up the front, and displaying only 
the white throat, — no exposure of shoulders and bust, which 
renders French and English portraits so disgusting ; the rich 
golden-hazel hair falls over her shoulders luxuriantly, and a 
thin veil is fastened round the back of her head. There is 



60 BIEMOIR. 

another large portrait in his room, a perfect contrast to Gene- 
vieve. It is Heloise, taken atihat moment in the poem when 
she receives Abelard's letter, and soliloquizes in her cell : — 
" What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?" The large 
dark eyes look outward into the world beyond her cell, and 
there is passion in every feature ; while Genevieve's blue eyes 
are downcast, and there is a sad expression on the face. You 
remember the verse, 

" Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My life, my love, my Genevieve ; 
She loves me best whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve." 

To another friend she thus describes a piece of 
sculpture. After alluding to a painting of the 
same subject, she writes : 

Brackett has a fine thing. It is a basso-relievo, and em- 
bodies the whole of Longfellow's poem, Excelsior j though the 
part peculiarly chosen is the last verse : — 

" There, in the morning, cold and gray, ■ 

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
♦ Still grasping in his hand of ice 

The banner, with the strange device : 

' Excelsior ! ' " 

The principal figure in the foreground is the youth, lying 
cold and dead, the face upturned with an intellectual, lofty 
expression. The banner is grasped in his hand, 

*' While from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell like a falling star — 

' Excelsior ! ' " 

In the background stand the monk, stern and stoical ; the Al- 
pine peasant wondering ; the maiden, with looks of despairing 
love, and the faithful hound. It is one of the most exquisite 
things I ever met with. 



MEMOIR. 61 

As delightfully she dwells on her reading, and 
the lectures she attended. Every agency was used 
for culture; and she deepened their power by 
communicating their influence to her distant 
friends in her descriptive letters. She labored to 
draw into sympathy with her tastes her friends, 
and she thus writes : 

Do you love poetry? and what poets do you most admire? 
I have a fancy that you like the same authors I do. Do you 
like Byron, with his wild, stormy grandeur, and his brooding 
melancholy ; Scott, with his graphic descriptions, and his 
Border Ballads; Wordsworth, with his natural simplicity; 
Mrs. Hemans, with her graceful imaginativeness; L. E. L., 
with her pathetic stories of blighted love and broken hearts ; 
all, or any of these, do you like? 

Speaking of a person with whorri she had been 
conversing, she writes to the same friend : — 
\" The heathen ! he don't like Byron ! What can 
the man be thinking of?" " Hyperion'' seemed to 
be a sort of pillow-book to her ; its music soothed the 
distracted mind, perplexed with the changes, toils 
and cares of the day, and it made the heart tender 
to accept with the morning all the ofiices of duty 
and love. At the intermission between the ser- 
vices of a Sabbath in the country, she read " Ser- 
mons of Consolation," by Dr. Greenwood, "a 
work," she writes, ''replete with beauty and holy 
love. I was very much impressed with one ser- 
mon in particular; the subject was, 'Christ our 
Fellow-Sufl'erer.' Mr. Greenwood, though classed 
with our Unitarian brethren, was one of us, in 
spirit and in words. To my mind there is a deal 
.5* 



62 MEMOIR. 

of similarity betv;'een his views and writings and 

those of ." She Avas captivated with the 

dramatic picturings of Carlyle's "French Revohi- 
tion ;" but she had no fancy for books of this cast^ 
because of the wars and bloodshed that make up 
their staple material. And her woman's heart is 
shown in her readiness to lean to the opinion of a 
colleague of Robespierre, who presented a view 
of his character, in the Democratic Review en- 
tirely opposite to the common portrait of this 
human contradiction. She writes to a friend who 
was kept informed of the use made of her time : — > 

Since my return from the country, I have read little and 
written nothing. The sickness of a relative, my attendance 
upon her, and some other matters of less moment, having occu- 
pied all, or nearly all, my time. I hope, however, by-and-by, 
to have more leisure, which I mean to improve. I have just 
been reading, with a good degree of interest and pleasure, a 
tale by Miss Martineau, called the " Hamlets." It is fraught 
with incident, and much of the wdsdom which distinguishes 
her writings. I think a few men of influence, possessed of her 
strength of mind and character, her principles and views, 
might do much towards correcting and reforming the abuses 
of social life in England, of which one of the prime evils seems 
to be that of pauperism. The " Hamlets" is a tale illustrative 
of a plan for eradicating this evil from the land, and making 
the work-house paupers independent laborers. I wish you 
would read it, if you have opportunity. 

The visit to the country here alluded to was to 
Northboro', the residence of the father of the 
friend who subsequently became her husband. 
She took great pleasure in this retreat from the 
heat and dust of the city, and was enamored of the 



jMEMom. 63 

rural beauty of the town. She paints some half 
dozen pictures of the scene which spread out 
from the window of her room in the mansion 
there. We give one of them : — 

Let me tell something- of my present location. It is a large 
and beautiful town, this Northboro', and the house where I live 
is a two-story yellow one, shaded in front by four stately elms, 
and almost surrounded by fruit-trees. In front of the house, 
through the interlacing branches of the trees, you have a fine 
view of a lofty hill, crowned with chestnut-trees, with cattle 
grazing on its sides ; and to the right a beautiful landscape, 
diversified with pretty cottages, old farm-houses, waving 
foliage of trees, and even the glistening water of a little Tirook 
which intersects the road. Tiiere is a deal of water scenery 
about here, — some very pretty little falls, &c. I never was in 
a country place which boasted so many beautiful walks and 
rides. When W— — gets here, I shall improve the summer 
mornings by visiting our favorite haunts ; but I do not like to 
go alone. The spire of the Unitarian church rises up before 
me as I sit here by the window, and reminds me to speak of 
the two Sabbaths I have passed here. They have been de- 
lightful days, both as regards the days and my enjoyment of 
them. The first was the com.munion Sabbath ; and I heard 
two good discourses, one on the Passion of Christ, by the pas- 
tor. Rev. Mr. Allen, — " Priest Allen," they call him here, — 
and the other by Mr. Beckwith, on the subject of Peace. 

In the summer of 1843 she passed three pleas- 
ant weeks in Northboro', a few very happy (Jays 
in Marlboro', at Rev. Mr. Green Avood's, two weeks 
in Franklin, and one in Medway. These were 
breathing-times for her whole nature, and she 
drank in life from the rural beauty that came into 
sight, and found in the society of her friends an 
exhilarating happiness. While in Franklin, she 



64 MEMOIR. 

spent one Sabbath by attending two services at 
church, and riding out of town towards evening to 
a third service, of her own reUgious faith. Here 
she met a clerical friend, and a few words by him 
concerning dear friends, together with the inspira- 
tion of the religious service, were wonderfully 
reviving. " These things," she writes, " may 
seem common and trivial to you, but to me they 
were of great consequence." 

Added to the delights of this year, was a visit, 
in early summer, to her friends in Shirley Yillage, 
where she led a gypsy life, and fed her passion 
for flowers, trees and streams, and communion 
with the idolized Sarah, her gifted and excellent 
brother John, and the estimable family. To pay 
a visit to those dear to her, was like receiving 
one from them; and a brief visit from dear 
friends could give her the highest joy, and some- 
times would produce an elevation of feeling that 
was really dangerous from the intense reaction. 
She writes to her dearest correspondent to throw 
oflf a depression of spirits, and accounts for that 
depression by telling of 

A golden day, — one of those rare seasons whose memories 
remain with us long after the scenes and objects that en- 
tranced have left our sight. I was all day under the influ- 
ence of a magic spell, such as held me when I was in L . 

About ten o'clock, Saturday morning, as I was sitting 
quietly at my sewing, I caught a glimpse of a familiar form 
passing the window ; and in far less time than it will take me to 

write it, I had shaken hands with Mr. H , kissed his wife, 

and greeted James, their eldest son. I shall not undertake to 
describe my joy, for words would not do justice to my sensa- 



MEMOIR. 65 

tions. They remained with us all day, and a part of the 

evening, and a rich treat it was. We talked — that is, L ■ 

and myself — for you know Mr. H is a very little talker, 

— of all that passed during that Elysian season. Every scene 
was lived over again, and enjoyed with renewed zest; we 
laughed and cried, and laughed again ; and, in short, to a 
stranger, could such an one have seen us, we must have 
appeared like two simpletons. 

Like ''golden days" were granted her around 
and upon the hill-sides of Bow Brook; and she 
wrote of them, a year afterward, as growing "more 
bright and beautiful, as they recede into the dim 
caverns of the past. Do you not live them over 
again almost every hour ; and is there not enjoy- 
ment even in the simple reminiscence'?" 

While here, these friends originated a mock- 
periodical entitled The Bread Trough^ issued in 
manuscript, racy and witty in the extreme, ex- 
pressing a boundless archness and humor, that 
gave the zest to their conversational talent. 

Late in the summer she spent a week at our 
home, in Providence, with S. C. E. It was a 
week of true happiness. 

On the 19th of November, of this year, Charlotte 
was married to Mr. J. W. Jerauld. This union 
consummated an attachment of years, and every 
mention of her husband is affectionate and warm. 
She entered upon the duties of her new vocation 
with pure affections and a strong will. Her dislike 
of show was maintained with beautiful consistency 
in the arrangements for, and in the celebration of, 
her wedding. She was married early on Sabbath 



66 MEMOIR. 

morning. She heartily responded to the meaning 
of the service, attended church both parts of 
the day, and crowned the day by having "her 
minister" and a clerical friend at tea. 

The humble circumstances of her husband re- 
quired the utmost economy of time and expense ; 
but the efforts thus required were nothing to her, 
were it not for the deprivation she suffered in not 
being able to continue her progress in literature. 
"I find," she writes, "little in 'housekeeping' to 
make one feel poetical, or like telling a story with 
any grace." She, however, as in all her life, found 
time for a little effort in the way of her choice, and 
remoulded many of the poems she wrote in her 
earliest years. Those she originated at this time 
bear the impress of more studious effort, some of 
which may be found at the close of the poetry in 
this volume. Her "Sketches of Hazlehurst" were 
written after her marriage. The tone of these 
stories is more lively than her " Lights and Shad- 
ows." She did not neglect her correspondents, 
and it is pleasant to see the perfect neatness of her 
chirography, the closeness of the writing, and the 
full sheets she sent to her friends. Luxuries in the 
shape of food and furniture and fine dress she 
could easily forego, but she could not live without 
letters. She wrote them at night, at Sabbath 
noons, at early morning; and when labor could 
not be performed, she bent over the paper with her 
pen, though her head ached severely, and with "a 
cancer-wart on the third finger, that seemed to 
have fastened its roots to the bone, sending shoot- 



MEMOIR. 67 

mg pains through the arm to the shoulder." She 
crowds the sheets full of interest, as though the 
motto was, that "not the gold eagles, but the 
picayune favors, do the greatest good in social 
life." It was no letter for letter rule that guided 
her in her correspondence, but " My heart is brim- 
ful of you and your affairs, and I miisi write. I 
have you before me in your happiest mood and 
appearance, and I wish you were bodily with me 
to rejoice as I do in a bright spring day." She 
learns that a friend is to remove where a dear 
relative resides, and she writes to commend to her 
relative her friend, that their families may be all 
the happier by acquaintance. In one line she pic- 
tures him : "_He is a fine, bluff, social man, and as 
good-natured as it is possible for a man to be." 
And when depression came, she took up her pen, 
and by writing to her friends brought before her 
the qualities of character she loved, revisited re- 
freshing scenes, and drew in the inspiration of 
Christian actions which she commended in others, 
till she could say, 

"Noble deeds shall hold me in place of garden rest." 

On the first new year's day after her marriage, 
she writes : 

Ah, well ! another year has slipped by, bringing changes 
neither few nor small — lights to some — shadows, oh, how 
dark ! to others ! The past year was variously chequered to 
me. I have been gay and sad — to both extremes ; have made 
and broken acquaintanceships — not friendshi])s, thank God! 
have parted with those I love for a time, and with one forever 
on earth ; and in three short weeks stood first at the grave, and 



6b MEMOIR. 

passed 11 nee to the altar. It is passing strange to me, this 
last event , I have not yet got acquainted with myself as a wifef 
yet I trust to be enabled to perform all my duties faithfully 
and M^ell. 

In the spring of this year, she was deeply 
aflfected by the death of a young friend, of whom 
sh^ writes : 

She was one of the most amiable and gentle of God's crea- 
tion, leaving the dearest connections without a murmur, after 
bearing a long sickness with uncomplaining gentleness and 
patience. She died in the arras of her beloved, eager — more 
than willing, as she herself said — to die ; longing to have 
wings to fly away, triumphant in the faith ! 

Her disease was that lingering and most flattering one, — ^ 
consumption. Yet, through all the weary days, weeks and 
months, that she was confined to her room, debarred from all 
the enjoyments which the young love so well, no word of 
repining or complaint ever passed her lips — none, 1 am sure, 
lingered in her heart ! So cheerful and happy did she appear, 
that she never failed to communicate it to those who visited 
her, during their stay by her side, and send them away hoping, 
involuntarily, against hope. Yet it was not the expectation of 
returning health that enlivened her thus ; not the fairy visions 
of life and pleasure that might be supposed to flit before the 
eyes of one so young and fair ; — for, as she herself told her 
pastor, some time before her death, she had long known that 
she could never recover. " Tell my young friends," was her 
dying message, "^that nothing but the religion of the Lord 
Jesus can give true pleasure in life, or impart calmness and 
joy to the dying ! " No earthly hope was that which illumined 
her path through the valley of shadows, and which dictated 
her last message to her beloved minister — " Tell him thai I 
am more than willing to die! " 

Not from the aged, worn out by the toils and struggles of 
life — not from the sorrow-stricken, the lonely and bereaved 
one, whose every earthly tie had been sundered, issued those 



MEMOIR. 69 

words ! She from whose lips they fell so calmly was in the 
bloom and beauty of youth — untried by sorrow, uncontami- 
nated by sin — bound by the cords of affection to many hearts ; 
parents, kind and affectionate, were beside her, a loving brother 
and sister, and one faithful and devoted, the best-beloved, who 
was to have been her husband — all these circled round her 
with tearful eyes and fond embraces ; yet still from those pale 
lips came the triumphant words — " I am more than willing 
TO DIE ! " Life was bright and beautiful to her ; the shadows 
had not yet fallen dark upon her pathway ; but upward, onward, 
gazed the faith-inspired eye, and as the golden gates of the 
celestial city burst qpon her sight, fainter and dimmer grew 
the scenes of earth ; angel-fingers beckoned her, angel-voices 
wooed her thither, and seraph-anthems welcomed the gentle 
spirit to her Father's house ! 

Weep, ye bereaved ones, from whose heart-garland another 
flower has faded — for thus perchance may your sight become 
clearer to discern the glories of immortality ! Weep, for thua 
did the Master, at the grave of one he loved ! Weep, but oh, 
npt for her, the bright and blessed one — not for the beatified 
spirit in heaven — but weep rather for yourselves, that your 
heavy hearts may thus find relief! Pure and blameless was 
her life — calm, peaceful and happy, its closing scenes. Though 
** dead, she yet speaketh " to every heart that knew her, — ay, 
and shall yet speak, through the influence of her example, to 
hundreds whose eyes never rested on her living face, in words 
of truth and beauty never to be effaced from their memory. 
Living, she hath exemplified the beauties of her faith ; dying, 
she hath borne triumphant testimony to its power to take the 
sting from death, and rob the grave of victory ! May the man- 
tle of her virtues rest on those who are left behind ! Blessed 
art thou, oh gentle one, for the Father loved thee, and hath 
called thee early to be with Him and Christ ! 

While the June flowers of this year were in 
bloom, the first-born of a friend's family became a 
beautiful Memory, and a more beautiful Hope. 
6 



70 ^ MEMOIR. 

Deeply did her death affect the heart of Charlotte, 
— for she had sported with her the summer pre- 
vious, — and she thus wrote to the bereaved mother, 
after the burial : 

My heart's warmest sympathies are with you in this season 
of your bereavement and sorrow ; and though I feel deeply that 
words of common consolation fall like mockery on the ear, 
while every fibre of the heart is quivering with intense agony, 
yet I cannot refrain from writing to you, were it only for the 
selfish indulgence of giving vent to the feelings which your 
affliction has stirred up within me. Ever since I was first 
startled by the tidings of her death — so sudden — and ever 
since I stood by her coffin, I have yearned to see you, to clasp 
your hand, and whisper some little word of peace and comfort 
in your ear, — to apply a drop of healing balsam to your torn and 
lacerated heart. I fear you have thought me cold and indiffer- 
ent, because I have not proffered my sympathies in the hour of 
your sorrow ; but, believe me, my heart's warmest sympathies 
have been with you, and my earnest prayers have risen to 
heaven, that you might thence derive the comfort and consola- 
tion which can proceed from no other source. I should have 
spoken with you on the day of your Mary's funeral, but my 
heart was full, and I felt as if it would be impossible to give 
utterance to my feelings without distressing you even more. 
May the Father comfort you, and wipe the tears from your 
eyes, so that you may discern the fountain of mercy and love 
gushing for you, amid the wilderness of sorrow ! • 

The summer succeeding her marriage was en- 
livened by a visit to Northboro'. This was much 
needed by the state of her health, for at this time 
we find prophecies of what was to come, as the 
climax of her maladies. The air of the country, 
and the reviving influences of rural beauty, in- 
creased her strength, and benefited her mentally. 



MEMOIR. 71 

She writeSj while here, how the noridness of her 
face had betrayed many into the belief that she 
was perfectly healthy ; but she had suffered from a 
determination of blood to the brain for years, and 
many times she expressed a fear that the oppression 
of the brain, — a leaden weight of ponderous heav- 
iness, — would end in insanity. Years before 
this time, she wrote a letter to her betrothed, tak- 
ing an affectionate leave of him and life, under the 
apprehension of speedy death or insanity from this 
cause. 

She wrote but little duringJhe succeeding winter. 
In April, she penned the fourth of her ''Sketches 
of Hazlehurst," — the beautiful story of the "Lace- 
weaver;" and in May, she gave us one of her most 
finished poems, " The Bride." This poem did not 
satisfy her, or she would have sent it for the ^^Rose 
of Sharon ; " for she writes at this time to the friend 
who edited that Annual : — 

I feel quite ashamed that I did not fulfil my promise of 
writing for the " Rose; " but you have no idea of the listless, 
supine state of my mind. I have resolved and re-resolved to 
chain my thoughts down, and get off something in the shape 
of a story ; but the last hour came, and found the article in the 
same unfinished state, and poor me in utter despair. 

"The Bride" was the last work of her pen, 
though another poem, "Isabel," was published 
afterward. A touching interest is always attached 
to the last effort of departed genius, and we give 
here the poem : 



72 MEMOIR. 



^ THE BRIDE. 

Flowers for the bride ! She is young and fair ; 
Let them brightly bloom mid her soft brown hair ; 
The shining leaves of the myrtle vine 
With the fragrant buds of the orange twine, 
And the snowy japonica, Flora's pride, 
« To garland the brow of the fair young bride. 

A song for the bride ! Not a carol gay. 
But tender and sweet as the wind-harp's lay, 
When the south wind murmurs its strings among 
And softest strains on the air are flung, 
Thrilling the soul with a magic power — 
Music like this for the marriage hour ! 

Joy to the bride ! She has plighted now 
To the best beloved a holy vow ; 
And they, henceforth, until life is done. 
In name and fame, and in heart, are one. 
Her home is now by the loved one's side, — 
May blessings rest on the youthful bride I 

But tears steal fast from her downcast eyes. 
Her bosom heaves with convulsive sighs ; 
What shade of sadness or thought has power 
To dim the joy of the bridal hour ? 
Her tears are shed on a mother's breast — 
The dove is quitting the parent nest ! 

Pray for the bride ! for oh, never more 

Shall she tread again, as in days of yore. 

The sunny slopes where her young feet played. 

Or the pleasant haunts where in youth she strayed ; — 

Through what rough paths may her footsteps roam, 

When she crosses the threshold of childhood's home ! 



MEMOIR. 73 

Pray for the gentle and loving bride ! 
That her heart, howe'er by affliction tried, 
Through chances and changes, in joy or pain, 
Truthful and trustful may still remain ; 
And blessings fruitful and rich abide 
In the heart and home of the happy bride ! 

The '' unfinished " story to which she refers in 
her letter above was entitled, '' Under the May- 
stick," and was finished by the friend for whom 
she was to have written it. It is now another 
memorial of their unity of effort, as published in 
the ''Rose of Aharon'' for 1847. 

But though she had closed her literary labors, 
she did not permit any supineness of mind to keep 
her from correspondence. Two weeks previous to 
her death, she wrote quite a number of letters, all 
of them in the little neat characters that gave such 
a grace to her epistles, and full to the brim. She 
seemed to write as though she must give one more 
expression to her afiiuent love, and show that 
nothing could drive away the forms of her friends 
from the vision of her soul. In her last letter to 
her dearest correspondent, is the only reference to 
death to be met with in these letters ; but amid the 
detail of the little matters of interest to the house- 
hold affections, there is apparent to the heart of sen- 
sibility a something unexpressed, — not of gloomy 
foreboding, or shrinking from the veiled future, but 
a solemn waiting on God and his providence. She 
asks her friend if the weather is more propitious 
in the vicinity of Bow Brook than in the city, 
and adds : — 

6=^ 



74 MEMOIR. 

I am longing to get into the country, to smell the green trees 
and the fresh air ; and sometimes I get so tired of waiting to 
go, that it seems as if I were destined to die in the dust and 
heat of this crowded city, pining for the breath of flowers. In 
the cold, stormy days of winter, I always shrink fearfully from 
the thoughts of death, and the cold, damp, snow-covered grave ; 
but in the burning days of summer, it wears a different aspect, 
and one can think, with a feeling akin to pleasure, of its cool, 
dark, flower-wreathed chambers. 

This was the last conscious utterance of her 
thoughts of death and the grave ; and is it not a 
refreshing utterance? The common thought is, 
How terrible it is to die when the full glory of 
summer is abroad, and nature is dressed for the 
high festival of joy ! Not to her came the usual 
associations of the grave, — the shroud, the coffin, 
and the mouldering damp ; but with a poet's touch, 
she changed the whole, and spake of the "cool, 
dark, flower- wreathed chambers " of the tomb. 

The last week in July, 1845, her child was 
born. On the third day of her sickness, she 
began to wander — her thoughts were disconnected 
and confused ; and in less than twenty-four hours 
she became a raving maniac ! All through her 
life she had felt and expressed the presentiment 
that she should die young; and, as though dread- 
ing what really came, she often remarked, she 
hoped she should have her senses When she should 
die. The circumstances of her death give meaning 
to many allusions in her letters that otherwise 
might be passed with but a slight notice. She 
many times attempted to set herself firmly at a 
course of reading and study, to carry out the wishes 



MEMOIR* 75 

and advice of a clerical friend, whose influence over 
her was of the best character, and used to the best 
ends. But she could not persist She lamented 
this, and writes to S. 0. E. her sorrow at her many 
defeats, adding ^'My memory is very treacherous-, 
and I believe it is aftected by the difficulty in my 
head, of which I have spoken to you before." 
Many times she was perfectly overwhelmed with 
a depression of spirits ; not from any recognizable 
cause in her experience, but from a shadow that 
came she knew not from whence, and which she 
could not put away. To write in a lively strain 
was not the easiest effort of her_ talent. She suf- 
fered much from the remarks of friends, who told 
her that she made her sketches too sad ; and she 
would destro]^ articles she had commenced writing, 
because the current in them set the same way. 
She writes to a friend, on this subject : — 

Now, I do write stories sometimes that end well, though, 
when I do, they flow from the wpper-current ; but beneath that 
is a deep under-current of sad feeling, which will work itself 
into whatever I write; and, truth to tell, my " shadows " are 
far dearer to me than my " lights," 

Certain we are, she sought no aids to strengthen 
this tendency to sadness ; and herein the story of 
her life speaks a good word. Her melancholy 
never became morbid ; she never voluntarily turned 
the dark side of anything to her gaze that she 
might have cause to weep, but sought the ministry 
of all beautiful and holy things to strengthen her 
in the evil hour. It was because of this that the 
favorite sermon in Dr. Greenwood's volume was 



76 MEMOIR. 

'' Christ our Fellow-sufFerer," — one of those lyrical 
utterances of gospel truth that bring the harmonies 
of revealed rehgion to blend perfectly with the 
voices of nature and the best moods of the human 
soul. Her unquenchable love of a frank expres- 
sion of one's own nature made passages like the 
following to be the echoing of the voice of God to 
her spirit : — 

Suffering is suffering ; and you cannot teach, human nature 
to be indifferent to it, because he who made it has made it 
susceptible of suffering. And, here it is that I feel the value 
of my Saviour's prayer. Jesus sympathizes v^^ith me when 
I shrink from the prospect of pain ; for there was an hour 
when he shrunk from it himself, and, in extreme distress, 
begged to be delivered from it, if it were possible. There 
was no show of bravery in him when the sweat dropped from 
him like blood, and he cried amidst the gloom of that last 
night — cried out that the cup might be taken away. And 
this assures me that no show of bravery is required of me in 
the hour of my distress, and that I am guilty of no improper 
weakness, and prefer no undutiful petition, when I am subdued 
and melted, and pray that the dreaded pangs may be spared 
me. I find him near to me in the valley of tears and sorrows ; 
not rebuking me, but sanctifying my sad appeals, and permit- 
ting me to borrow his own words in making my petition. I . 
love him for his simple, undisguised, unmingled truth ; I love 
him for taking on himself my nature so entirely ; — for not only 
teaching me and arming me, but weeping with me, and even 
fearing with me. And loving him in this wise, and comforted 
by his sympathy when I weep and fear, I am better prepared to 
follow and imitate him when he submits, endures and triumphs. 
Reassured in my trembling and yet importunate griefs, by 
hearing him exclaim, " O my Father, if it be possible, let this 
cup pass from me ! " I am the more ready to pursue his prayer, 
and add, " Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt." 



MEMOIR. 77 

Charlotte did not wrestle with her Maker, as 
though she was wronged by suffering, but she 
tuned her heart to all the music that might be 
granted to soothe the unquiet spirit and hasten the 
recovery. And when madness came, it was the 
overwhelming rushing of a power she had feared 
many times, but which she had resisted by the 
discipline of the will, that has more control over 
insanity than we dream of 

The last of her conscious acts was the reading a 
few lines of a letter from S. 0. E. It was full of 
gushing health and gladness, the exuberance of 
friendship, and dealt with matters of personal in- 
terest — the little items of domestic and gossiping 
life. It was read to her by her husband ; but this 
was not enough. Though it might seem as one 
singing songs to a heavy heart, it was really the 
life she needed ; each little detail had a pulse of 
true vitality in it, and the spirit of every line was 
electric with refreshing power. She took it into 
her hands, held it up, and read a few lines; but 
her extreme weakness made her friends fearful of 
the effect of her emotion, and the last letter was 
taken away. In her delirium she murmured the 
name of Sarah ; but all else was indistinct. The 
most fearful of visions were before her ; and though 
the remedial means used by her physician calmed 
her somewhat, it was the quietness of exhaustion ; 
and without further consciousness of the reality of 
things, she died. Her infant preceded her on the 
first day of August ; Charlotte died on the second, 
talking in a low, whispering tone unceasingly, till 



78 MEMOIR. 

the last throe was past. If the inefficiency of her 
rehgious faith was, as imagined by some, to be 
proved by these last hours, their entire efficacy 
must have been substantiated by the unutterably 
beautiful and celestial visions, which changed only 
from glory to glory, when that pure spirit left us, 
with whom she had such a unity of feeling, sym- 
pathy, religion and life-purpose; for the realities 
to which the redeemed are admitted in the celestial 
life were all symbolized in the divine beauty of 
the visions of the last hours of Mrs. Mayo. She 
had a poet's death. No life-long ills had been 
working in her brain, striving for the ascendency ; 
and she was spared those infirmities that were 
weakening constantly the silver cord and shatter- 
ing the golden bowl at the fountain of her friend's 
life. 

On the Sabbath succeeding the death of Charlotte, 
she was buried from the Warren-street Church, 
Boston. A deep and profound interest was felt in 
the occasion by a vast throng of relatives, friends 
and acquaintances. Revs. H. Ballou, S. Streeter 
and O. A. Skinner, participated in the services, ex- 
pressing their estimation of her as an unpretending 
Christian, whose happiness was found chiefly in 
ministering to others. 

Her burial-place is in Mount Auburn cemetery, 
the spot she contemplated three years before as the 
place where she would be buried, could the wish 
be granted. Fit resting-place for one who loved so 
intensely the interweaving lights and shadows of 
the forest aisles, and to whom the music of the 



MEMOIR. 79 

murmuring wind whispered of existence undefined 
but beautiful, in the chme of eternal health and 
harmonious activity ! 

" The good, the loved, are with us though they die ; 
We think of them as angels in the sky ; 
But the deep firmament divides us not — 
They're with us in the densest crowd, and in the loneliest spot." 



Such is our record of Charlotte's life — a life so 
full of promise that we can but regret that more 
opportunity was not given here for its develop- 
ment and exhibition. While the impression is 
fresh upon us, gained from a studious perusal of 
her correspondence, and a careful scrutiny of all 
the inlets to her character, we may utter our 
appreciation of the woman. Not that our opinion 
can weigh much with the reader, but because it is 
a natural and useful curiosity to inquire, what is 
the estimation formed of a person, in whom we are 
interested, by those who have had the best means 
of acquaintance. We had known Charlotte while 
she was yet visible. We had known her aims, her 
impulses, the warmth and depth and unselfish 
character of her friendships, her frank manners, 
and that mingling of reserve which asked for a 
certainty of sympathy ere the whole being could 
be given up. We had known, what a friend writes 
us, that "Charlotte's nature was exquisitely sensi- 
tive and reserved in the putting out of its best 
things. That overflowing mirth meant a great 
deal more than joy, — it was the capricious inter- 



80 MEMOIR. 

preter of her fears and her sorrows, her love and 
her piety, no less than her gladness." We had 
known all this, but we never knew it so well as 
since her papers and correspondence have fallen 
under our inspection. We can give the impression 
made by the great mass of her letters, which are 
of too personal a character to be given to the pub- 
lic; and we repeat our thought, that we see the best 
evidence that she was a pure-hearted and heroic 
woman ; — one who felt what life was made to her, 
and what she wanted to make life ; who did her 
part well in the economy of intellectual advance- 
ment, and made a wise use of the limited means 
which were granted to her. It is a sacred office to 
look into the letters of the dead ; — to gaze upon the 
play of the tenderest and acutest feeUngs, — the; 
peering out of the most delicate and retiring emo- 
tions of the soul, — the freedom of communicative- 
ness where the heart is sure of its proper reader. 
In all such letters there is a life that survives the 
interest of the things detailed. It affects us like a 
remembered melody when the sentiment of the 
song is forgotten. It comes to us like the unction 
of a speaker, whose language we cannot fully 
interpret. These letters abound with references 
which are unappreciable to us, but in the exuber- 
ant fancy, the warm-hearted eagerness to impart 
a pleasurable item of intelligence, the blending of 
high-toned thought with, racy gossip, the stern 
integrity to principle, while tolerance of personal 
peculiarities is preserved, the gayety of fancy and 
mirth kept within appropriate limits, and the same 



MEMOIR. 81 

soul as ready to weep with those who weep as to 
rejoice with those who rejoice, — we can but see a 
character to admire. We know with whom we 
are communing, and how worthy the heart that 
utters itself is of our admiration and esteem. The 
letters of the dead are the best revelation of char- 
acter, and we have no reverence to give to those 
who seem to fear this test, and burn all they can 
grasp. We do not marvel at the profound regard 
which Tennyson exhibits for his dead friend, in 
his " In Memoriam^^^ when we read how that 
friend's letters affected him : — 

" A hunger seized my heart ; I read 

Of that glad year that once had been, 
In those fallen leaves that kept their green. 
The noble letters of the dead : 

" And strangely on the silence broke 

The silent-speaking words, and strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying change 
To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

" The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 

On doubts that drive the coward back, 
And keen through wordy snares to track 
Suggestion to her inmost cell. 

" So word by word, and line by line, 

The dead man touched me from the past, 
And all at once it seemed at last 
His living soul was flashed on mine." 

We feel that such letters have life in them ; and 
though they treat of matters beyond the reach of 
our interpretation, that life would make itself felt, 
and the name of the dead be made holy. Such is 
the impression made on our mind by reading the 
7 



82 MEMOIR. 

letters of Charlotte. We gaze at them as they are 
arranged before us, and recognize in them a suffi- 
ciency of power to attest the sincerity of her pro- 
fessions, the generous character of her feelings, the 
breadth of her comprehension of human nature 
and true human life, her warm sympathy with 
nature, and her reverent love of God. In them 
are no murmurings at fate, no morbid melancholy, 
no dreamings of a diseased and restive fancy, no 
bickerings and strifes, no littlenesses of temper, or 
cynical criticisms. If she speaks of a want of 
companionable feeling towards any one thrown by 
circumstances within the circle of her notice and 
acquaintance, she attributes this want, not to 
defects of character in that person, but admits the 
reasonableness of the good opinions of others, and 
suggests that her own want of appreciation arises 
from a dissimilarity of tastes, or the absence of 
affinity in pursuits. Her likes and dislikes had a 
rational basis. She never expressed more than she 
meant as a friend, though her reserve and timidity 
often time prevented the expression of as much as' 
she felt. She says, in her letters, very little of those 
nearest related to her; but what is said is enough 
to show a true fideUty to the affections of home 
and domestic hfe. We have written but little of 
her estimation of her mother and husband in the 
Memoir^ because they are both living, and we are 
not writing of the living, but of the dead. We 
believe that her filial love was deep and strong, — 
too strong for any other than the language of deeds 
to give it appropriate expression. She always 



MEMOIR. 83 

spoke of her mother with devoted aifection. We 
see her love for that mother in the industry of her 
girlhood, which sent her to toil from home as soon 
as her school-days were ended. She carried from 
school a deep thirsting after intellectual culture ; 
but it was made to yield, as far as necessary, to 
the calls of duty in the home, and we see her at- 
tentive to mental culture while her hands wrought 
at a labor that required but little concentration of 
mind. She that sings at her labor enlivens her 
toils, and she that composes a song while her hands 
are employed, does the same ; and Burns did well 
to exult when he found a rival in the field at the 
business of stooking or the sheafing of grain, 
when he beat "off the claim of " I 'm equal to you, 
Robin, to-day!" by exclaiming, '-'Nay, for I've 
made a song while I 've been stooking." Char- 
lotte did not neglect her toil, nor her song. And 
most affectionately does she mention in her letters 
some of the young women with whom she wrought, 
and by a few strokes of her pen places before the 
reader of her letter the face, form and manners, 
of the person alluded to. She never mentions but 
to commend. In all this we see a woman to be 
admired and loved. 

Looking into Charlotte's exterior life, we are 
struck with the simplicity of her tastes, and the 
wisdom of her choice how to live. What an inlet 
to this is the fact of her taking a day from her 
toil-time, when somewhat unwell, and refreshing 
herself by visiting the exhibition-rooms of painters 
and sculptors! There is something affectingly 



84 ^ MEMOIR. 

beautiful to us in this incident, remembering, as 
we do, that it is but suggestive of one of her habits, 
— to act on the body through the mind, — now to 
enUven the vital spirits by writing a letter to a 
friend, and then by communion with the beautiful 
in art. Simple tastes, and this illuminating and 
refining method of supplying amusement or recre- 
ation, gave her the best use of her powers for men- 
tal progress. A good book became to her better 
than a fine ornament ; an evening's conversation 
with an intelligent friend was far preferable to the 
theatre or the concert-room; and the sight of an 
admirable picture or sculpture affected her far more 
than a splendid dress ; and the fashion-plate was 
nothing to the right costume of a graceful thought. 
Her ideas of happiness were never associated with 
splendor, and her dreams of home-life were identi- 
fied with a cottage. In her marriage home she 
spread her little gifts of friendship amid her books 
on the table in her humble parlor, and, with the 
fewest and simplest articles of furniture around 
her, she gazed on the scene delightedly, exclaim- 
ing, '' Well, there, I am so happy that I am afraid 
something will happen to me before long. This 
comes near to the idea I had of comfort, years ago, 
when I used to draw pictures of the future." 
Where thousands would have imagined many 
things needed to make them happy, her happiness 
was too great for continuance. The reason lay in 
the fact that she looked on all things as a poet; — 
not as the morbidly poetical, who must make thorns 
with which to torture themselves, but as those to 



MEMom. 85 

whom the common air is balm. Simplicity of 
tasteSj and humbleness in our wants, is the grand 
elixir of life. The ''must haves" are few, the 
''may wants" are many; and every reduction of 
the one to the limits of the other takes a thorn 
from the pillow, a wrinkle from the cheek, and a 
care from the heart. By this method, Charlotte 
kept her soul open to Nature and its beautiful 
ministry. Earth and sky spake to her in their 
meanings. The flowers lived for her, and the 
forest was no more vocal with the songs of birds 
than her walk there was fruitful in good thoughts 
and refreshing feelings. To sketch the beauty of 
the morning, the "memorable pomp" of the sky 
after a shower, and " all the sweetness of a com- 
mon dawn," was just as impulsive with her as to 
relate home news to the far away. " Three years 
without the sight of a violet" was as an exile ; and 
the gift to a beauty of the richest ornaments could 
create no greater pleasure than came to her by a 
few fresh anemones borne to her in the city, bright 
as when they blossomed on the hill-side, in the air 
of Bow Brook. Permitted to see the country, and 
enjoy its rural sights, she could tell the story of 
the time in the words of Wordsworth, in his 

" Summer Yacation : " — 

• 

" To the brim my heart was full. On I walked 
In thankful blessedness, which yet survives." 

As a writer, we need say*but little of Charlotte, 
as this volume presents ample means for forming a 
judgment. In all criticism it is due the writer, whose 

7* 



86 MEMOIR. 

productions we criticise, to remember the condi- 
tions under which those productions were sent 
forth. Charlotte had few opportunities for culture. 
She had no one to direct the eiforts she made in the 
few hours taken from repose ; and she. had to ven- 
ture anonymously into the notice of the public, to 
test whether she had or not a lamp worth filling 
again with oil. Truthfully has a friend, who knew 
her well, written of her, where he says, — " She had 
noble aspirations, and longed for opportunities to 
gratify them. She was filled and oppressed with 
longings for a life of study and literature, — for 
communion with the wise, and great, and good of 
all ages and lands, — for knowledge in all its mani- 
fold utterances. She died with a mind struggling 
to unfold itself into strength, and a heart full of 
beautiful visions never to be realized. Charlotte 
had more talent by far than was supposed even 
by her friends. There was a depth and tone to her 
thought and a grace to her composition, a min- 
gling of strength and tenderness, which would have 
made her, in a few years, under favorable circum- 
stances, one of the first female writers in our 
country." — We unite in all this. She was just 
beginning to have confidence in her powers. The 
elements of success were being brought into har- 
monious action, and the commendations of her 
friends were finding a fitting response in the new 
force ready for a better doing. She was just com- 
mencing to be a useful critic to herself She was 
becoming victorious in the struggle between what 
she felt best expressed her, and the wishes of her 



MEMOIR, 8^. 

Intimate friends for something more lively, and 
was writing a noble strain to commend the 
humanities of domestic and social life. Her po- 
etry was receiving a better polish, while all the 
grace of fresh thought and tenderness of feeling 
was preserved. We were charmed with the 
demonstration of improvement; and admired the 
artlessness of her art, just as we were to hear the 
knell of her departure from earth. Her writings 
are but intimations of what she was capable of 
doing, could time for careful expression and criti- 
cal revision have been granted to her. 

It can but be interesting to the reader to have 
the estimation of Charlotte as a writer, from her 
dearest friend, Mrs. Mayo. We have a manu- 
script expressive of that friend's view of Char- 
lotte's talents, designed for publication, and which 
was mislaid at the time. After 'speaking of Char- 
lotte's death, the manuscript proceeds thus : — 

'' She wrote, not from literary ambition, but from 
an over-full heart, as a bird sings, or a lamb sports j 
and scattered her melodies 

* A s an oak looseneth its gulden leaves 
In a kindly largess to the soil it grew on,' 

Poetry was to her the green tree under which she 
rested after her daily toils. She gathered no fruit 
from its boughs ; but, listening with a charmed ear 
to the murmuring strains amid its foliage, her 
spirit caught the melody, and warbled it aloud. 

" Considering Charlotte's poetry, then, as a spon- 
taneous thing, upon which she had bestowed no 



88 MEMOIR. 

culture, and from which she expected no fruits, it 
would be in bad taste to apply to it any other than 
the simplest aesthetic rules. Was it pure? was 
it simple ? 'was it true ? There can be but one 
answer. Sketched she a little cottage, — how clear- 
ly it stood out upon the landscape, with its mossy 
roof and overhanging elms ! Was an old country 
well her theme, — how temptingly trickled the clear 
drops over the brim of its mossy bucket ! And 
those fair young cottage maidens ! All after 
Goethe's pattern were they, with their clear blue 
eyes, pure loving hearts, and gay ringing laughter ! 

" Her taste was for the picturesque rather than 
the sentimental ; and she excelled in depicting an 
object of form rather than in expressing an emo- 
tion of the soul. There is very little of the sub- 
jective in her productions ; there was very little 
of it in her character. How charmingly would 
she glide along in narrative, and how glowingly 
describe an object or a scene ! But draw her away 
from, the realm of sight to the realm of abstract 
thought, and her colors grew pale and ineffective. 

"Wandering with her, however, in the paths of 
her own choosing, who will complain that she 
leads us to the little clear wood-streams, and to the 
dells where the violets grow ? And who would 
have sweeter society than those cottage girls, who, 
in whatever situations they might be raised by 
prosperity, or precipitated by misfortune, were 
ever gentle, affectionate and true ? In these scenes 
of rural beauty and romantic adventure, she found 
her natural vocation. 



MEMOIR, 89 

*' Charlotte's stories are written with much collo- 
quial ease, and evince a talent which, by cultiva- 
tion, might have insured her an honorable place 
among the story-writers of the day. Her heroines 
are not all run in one mould. Lucy Murray, 
Margaret Leslie, Isadore De Vaux, are not three 
reflections of the same woman ; they do not run 
together like rain-drops, but each preserves an 
individual character. Her narrative talent is supe- 
rior to her delineations of character. Her plots 
are simple and natural. We can easily suppose 
her tales to have been real. Indeed, she often 
cheats us into the belief that they are so ; and this 
is certainly a proof of no ordinary skill. 

''Her poetry has the same characteristics; — it is 
simple, tender, and full of delicate rural pictures. 
We count among the freshest and sweetest of her 
poems the dewy little stanzas on ' Yiolets.' 

'•'In many of her poems Charlotte has displayed 
gushings of tenderness, which show what a deep 
vein of it there was in her nature. It is a tender- 
ness touched with pity — a pathos that melts, but 
does not rend our hearts. Such is the character 
of -Cassie,' and 'Clara,' two sonnets; and of 
'The Motherless,' 'The Lonely One,' 'The 
Old Wife to her Husband,' and ' The Dying Wife 
to her Husband ;' — this last, a beautiful poem, 
seems to have been prophetic of her own fate. 
But in none of her writings is this trait of tender- 
ness displayed in so interesting a manner as in 
' The Magdalen.' 

" It seems like a dream, that the gay, the young 



90 MEMOIR. 

the loving Charlotte, is no longer a communicant 
with us in the joys and sorrows of mortal life. 
Can it be that her ringing laugh is no longer heard 
beside her mother's hearthstone? Is it true that 
creatures so bright, and joyous, and good, die in 
their youth and beauty? Yet, but a few weeks 
since, we walked through the streets of the city, 
where we have so often gayly promenaded together, 
arm in arm ; and though we gazed in every face 
we met, thinking of Charlotte, her beautiful eyes 
and smihng cheeks were nowhere to be seen. 
And then we entered her own home; we recog- 
nized, at every step, things that she had treasured 
and loved. Her books, her vase, her pictures, her 
perfumes, — were they not all there ? Yes, even a 
painted image of her own sweet face, with the mild 
blue eyes gazing into our own. But the genius loci 
was absent ! She bounded not forward, as usual, 
to grasp our hand, and kiss our cheek. They told 
us she was lying in the burial-ground upon the 
Common.^ For a week we daily passed and 
repassed that green enclosure. We saw the 
autumn foliage waving over her grave. There 
stood the silvery poplar, quivering like her own 
sensitive spirit; and the scarlet maple, rustling its 
beauty beneath the clear heaven from whence she 
doubtless looks down on her mourning friends. 
The air, the sun, the earth, were all so cheerful 
and pleasant, it seemed impossible to restrain the 
buoyancy of our spirits, even when treading near 
her dust. Charlotte was not there. She was liv- 

* Where she was first entombed. — B. 



MEMOIR. 91 

mg, and at our side. We felt that her spirit 
shared our joy ; that it would have fled from us 
had we wept, or had we been unmindful of its 
presence. Our faith buries no friend." 

Having spoken of the impression made by Char- 
lotte's letters, and referred to her exterior life, and 
her talents as a writer, but one thing remains, and 
that is, to say a word of her religion. According 
to the predominance of a regard for spiritual above 
sensual things, is to us the evidence of religion in 
the soul. In Charlotte we see little love for the 
sensual — much for the spiritual. The imagery 
employed in her writings shows whither her 
thoughts most impulsively and continuously 
turned. She knew the divine depth of sorrow. 
Her hours of sadness were never unilluminated by 
light from heaven, and she worshipped God in the 
cheerfulness of her soul. She chose for compan- 
ions those who could feed her thoughtfulness, and 
direct its strength to good ends ; and, with all the 
energy of feeling with which she disliked preten- 
^on and turned away from ostentatious piety, she 
loved the name and honor of God and his Christ. 
In her silent acts of charity to those poorer than 
herself, — by the touching tenderness of her speech 
and actions towards the neglected and obscure, — 
b}^ the earnestness with which she pleaded for the 
sinful that they might not be abandoned, and by 
the warmth of her sympathies towards all eflbrts 
for making the words of Jesus "spirit and life" 
in the every-day dealing of man with man, the 



92 MEMOIR. 

reality of her religious feelings and the comprehen- 
siveness of her religious principles were shown. 
She said little of the impressions made by religious 
services, but she took the thought home and fed 
the fire, faithful to this admonition, "Quench not 
the spirit." The highest themes found the best 
mental hospitality with her ; and her recognition 
of the Divine relations of life was clear and dis- 
tinct. Immortality was no dream, but a reality. 
It shone in the distance as the prophecy of the 
morning; it was felt as the air from the mountain, 
wafted to the dwellers in the sultry vale. It was 
imaged in the beauty of summer, which she 
desired to be above and around her grave, when 
she should be borne thither; and which did send 
its light in upon the tomb, and gushed its music 
above the spot where all that was mortal of Char- 
lotte was laid away, as the linen that bound 
Jesus ere he rose to immortality ! 

The reality and the pervading influence of 
Charlotte's religious convictions should not be 
questioned, because she does not use the impas- 
sioned language that seems so familiar with many 
undoubtedly religious people. To some, it is easy 
to express the deepest tenderness and their holiest 
feelings ; to others, this is impossible ; — they want 
to go into solitude, and bury their face in their 
hands, and pray. We could not bring out of famil- 
iar letters the expressions of religious trust and 
fervor, interwoven with the utterances of familiar 
friendship and the anxieties of a sympathetic na- 



MEMOIR. 



ture, any more than we could report a prayer of 
the closet which by chance we might have over- 
heard. And, in reading a memoir or biography, 
we are to test the religious spirit or character of 
the subject by the impression made upon us as a 
whole, — the tone which seems uttered by the life 
of the man or woman. To see religious life behind 
many and opposite forms, — to see it the hushing 
charm of silence, as well as the voice of eloquent 
pleading, — to recognize it in humble acts of neigh- 
borly interest, and in the retirement of solitude, 
where prayer aims to lift up the drooping hands 
of some toiler in the ways of woe, as well as in 
martyrdoms and the invoking of God's aid in the 
presence of a multitude, — this is the great need, 
in order to obtain life from the records of the lives 
of the good. Channing said, that the look of a 
face of true piety had done him more good than the 
most eloquent sermon; and when we read the 
faces of the good of every name and sect with 
such a teachable and impressible spirit, we shall 
not ask for a particular language, certain phrases, 
and set forms of speech, to enable us to recognize 
the presence of religion in the soul; for it will 
come out to meet us, as the warmth of a dwelling, 
as we enter it from the street. To cherish a deep 
interest in the obscure and neglected one, whom 
none noticed in the church, Sabbath after Sabbath, 
— to plead in the secrecy of thought and feeling for 
the pastor, to care for the Magdalene, that she 
might be led nearer to God, — to yearn for that evi- 
8 



94 MEMOIR. 

(lence of immortality which comes with the growth 
of mind in knowledge, truth and grace, and to see 
moral excellence only to recognize more distinctly 
one's own deficiencies, and to aspire after virtue 
and holiness, that God and the good may love us 
more, — is to be religious. If so, then was Char- 
lotte religious; and we can understand why she 
felt holily happy at the Table of the Lord, in the 
remembrance of Christ, carrying from thence a 
higher fellowship for everything worthy of being 
loved. Could she have been permitted the use of 
her reason in the last scenes of mortal life, we 
cannot doubt that she would have passed from the 
bewilderment that encompassed her to the serenest 
anticipations of heaven, like him who cried, "My 
God, my God ! why hast thou forsaken, me ! " but 
who closed not his lips till he said, " Father, into 
thy hands I commend my spirit ! " We leave, then, 
our friend in the embrace of that grace which glo- 
rifies the Creator's wisdom and power. 

But as a little space is yet left of the portion of 
this volume given to the Memoir, we would use it 
for what may be a providential word to some 
reader. We look on Charlotte's life as affording a: 
needed lesson to many young women. The class 
of young womerl^s not small who are in constant 
unrest, possessed of vague dreamings after some- 
thing they cannot have, — wasting life, with all 
its beautiful opportunities for highest culture, be- 
cause they cannot be what they see is attractive 
in some other. Keen discernment of beauty in. 



MEMOIR. 95 

nature, art and mind, is theirs ; rich susceptibihties 
towards poetry, in its manifold and most subtle 
forms ; a noble receptivity of mind, to give mental 
hospitality to high thoughts and Divine sentiments; 
— with ready sympathies, strong affections, and a 
knowledge of their moral deficiencies which over- 
whelms them at times, they do nothing, and are 
nothing. The capabilities we see in them are as 
waters that run to waste: — no flower, no plant, no 
springing grass, breathes out, nor smiles the blessing 
which those waters have power to give, if other- 
wise distributed. They are envious when they 
imagine they are only aspiring; they want the 
excellence they admire, without the bestowment of 
the labor that purchased it ; they neglect the gift 
that is in them in yearning for the gift which they 
see in another ; and, at length, sick of vain yearn- 
ings, they take up the prayer of impatience, "O 
that I had wings like a dove ! for then would I 
flee away and be at rest." Yes, this is their 
most characteristic language. They look with a 
poet's eye on the ^dove. Something alarms the 
little trembler ; his wings flutter, and he darts up- 
ward, takes his circles, and is lost like an arrow 
in the blue intense. To be like that bird, — to dart 
away from trouble and unrest, — to soar to that 
heaven that bends above, so calm, so serene, so 
beautiful, — were indeed, they think, the ultimate of 
desirable gifts. But they do not think far enough. 
They do not follow the dove as facts would direct 
their way, and see, as they might see, that the 
bird flies not to rest. Beyond our sight he strug- 



96 MEMOIR. 

gles with winds and clouds ; the eagle and the vul- 
ture are there ; and that little creature, that seemed 
secure from harm, the seronaut from his silken 
ship has seen amid elements of fierce contention. 
And so with humanity. Every sphere that is pos- 
sible has its difficulties and trials. Conflict is the 
condition of growth. To have the spirit the dove 
symbolizes in the Gospels, is far better than to ask 
for that bird's wings. No wings, though they may 
change thy place, can change thy soul, to alter 
the quality of thy thought, or give symmetry to 
character where sharp points persecute by the law 
of moral fitness. Beautiful to your sight, aspiring 
but yet desponding woman, may be the course of 
some mind that seems like a flying dove, whose 
snowy wings grow goldenly in the sunshine ; but 
thou art not near enough to see the heaving breast, 
the wandering eyes, the fluttering of the pinions, 
and thou canst not dream what a trembler may 
be in reality that image of peace. God has not 
made thee a dove ; a dove's life is not to be thine. 
Thank Him for what he has made thee, with a soul 
susceptible of everlasting growth, with sympathies 
for all things beautiful and true, with aspirings for 
the possession of endowments of which the best 
thou knowest now are but shadows and faint 
prophecies ! Use these gifts of God. Let thy little 
garden show the results of culture. Many a root 
and plant is there, worthy of all the skill thou 
canst bestow. And thy great encouragement shall 
be, culture ends not with the thing on which it 
is bestowed, — the power to do increases as the 



MEMom. 97 

thing done; and by true fidelity to the duty 
that Hes nearest, thou wilt best prepare thyself for 
what may come to thee in the distance, as the 
study of a ray of light made the eye ready to drink 
in the full beauty of the rainbow, when it spanned 
the heavens. 

That Charlotte did all we commend, by her 
memory, to others, we are far from presuming. 
She had her deficiences, — she felt them more than 
any other. But what we do say is this; — she 
longed for growth of soul, and neglected not her 
soul's growth in the sphere God gave her. Poor, 
obscure, required to toil, having but the limited 
advantages of education which are secured to 
the humblest, she put forth her powers, timidly, 
but successfully, as the Russian violet springs up 
amid the frozen soil ; and when sickness prostrated 
her energies, just as she was beginning to make 
better efforts, she murmured not, and only asked 
to have her pining for the sight of flowers and for 
the breath of the sweet-scented fields answered. 
God's gift was better than she prayed for. She is 
now to us a Memory and a Hope ! 
8* 



TRIBUTE TO "CHARLOTTE/' 

In a letter, dated a fortnight previous to her death, she writes as follows :— 
"I am longing to get into the country, to smell the green trees and the 
fresh air ; and sometimes I got so tired of waiting to go, that it seems as if 
I were destined to die in the dust and heat of this crowded city, pining for 
the breath of flowers. In the cold, stormy days of winter, I always shrink 
fearfully from the thoughts of death, and the cold, damp, snow-covered grave ; 
but in the burning days of summer it wears a different aspect, and one can 
think, with a feeling akin to pleasure, of its cool, dark, flower-wreathed 
chambers." 

Thy wish is granted, dearest ; thou art gone 
To the green fields and freshly breathing air, 

Where ever round thee plays the breeze of morn, 
And waving shadows fleck thy dew-sprent hair. 

The flowers are at thy feet, — the dear-loved flowers ; 

Young violets, scented with the breath of heaven, 
And radiant lilies, and o'er-hanging bowers 

Of loveliest roses, shedding dews at even ' 

Amid them, fairest blossom of them all, 

Thy child, thy love-flower, sports the hours away ; 

No shadow on its heart will ever gall, 
No raging sin, no wasting, slow decay ! 

Why should I weep for thee 1 I have not wept ! 

For though fond hearts and holy ties were riven, 
I could not mourn that thy tired body slept, 

And that thy spirit had gone home to heaven ! 

In summer, when the earth was fair with flowers. 
When zephyrs whispered mid the green old trees, 

When there was music in the vine-wreathed bowers, 
Shed from the wings of humming-birds and bees ; 



TRIBUTES TO CHARLOTTE. 99 

When all was beautiful in earth and sky, 

And thou, grown weary with thy pain and dread, 

Felt how serene and blest it were to lie 

In " the cool, flower- wreathed chambers of the dead ;" 

Then God, thy Father, heard thy murmured prayer ; 

Home to his arms he took his weary child, 
No more to strive with sin, or pain,;^or care, 

A spirit glorified and undefiled ! s. c. E. 

Shirley Village^ Mass. 



^'CHARLOTTE/' 

BT MRS. L. J. B. CASE. 

A SWEET and girlish face, 
A clear and happy eye, 
A pure, high brow, a form of grace, 
Too young and fair to die ; 
Such vision was the one that came 
At every mention of thy name. 

On earth I knew thee not, 

And yet I held thee dear ; 
And marked thee in the land of Thought 
Pass on from year to year. 
Gathering rich gems along thy way. 
And scattering them in careless play. 

Alas ! a solemn veil 

Hath fallen between us now. 
And slumber sits serene and pale 
Upon that graceful brow ; 
Yet a kind hand hath sealed that eye 
Before one shadow touched its sky. 



100 TRIBUTES TO CHARLOTTE. 

Thy task was early done ; 

Thou hadst no grief to learn ; 
Thou didst not watch Hope's setting sun 
Sink behind Memories stern, 
Till life's gray twilight shut its dread 
Dim curtains round thy heart and head. 

Now thou wilt lovelier be 

Than in thy living bloom ; 
For o'er each pleasant thought of thee 
No cloud or change can come. 
O, Death knows many a holy spell 
To guard his beautiful. Farewell ! 
Forest Home, Westbrook, Me. 



SONNET: ON THE DEATH OF MRS. JERAULD 

BY JAMES LUMBARD. 

She has vanished like a meteor 

From our dim, bewildered sight, 
But the spirit, lilie that pilgrim st8.r. 

Tends to the source of light. — CharlottS, 

I SAW a star amid the countless aisles 

Of light and beauty, that we nightly trace 
"Within the deep infinitude of space. 

And almost worship for their holy smiles, 

Whose radiance oft the heart of care beguiles ; 
But while I marked its fair, outshining face, 
It quickly darted from its wonted place. 

And sought a dwelling mid the seeming wilds 
That stretch afar beyond our feeble sight. 

Thus has the star we gazed intently on. 
And fondly cherished for its gentle light. 

Gone from our sky wherein it lately shone. 
Our Star has sought the " Source of Light " above, 
Rekindled at the shrine of God's unfathomed love I 
Utica, N. Y. 



POBTEY. 



THE CALL. 

" And they heard a great voice from heayen, saying unto them, ' Como 
up hither. ' " — Rev. 11:12. 

Rise from your low pursuits, 
Ye grovelling earth-worms ! whom the rising sun 
Sees heaping greedily your golden fruits, 
And toiling still when the long day is done. 

The gold hath dimmed your sight ; 
Ye grope like blind men in the light of day. 
O, cower no longer mid the shades of night ; 
Bask in the glory of the sun's full ray ! 

Ye weary ones and lone, 
Whose hearts are sorrowing for the loved and lost, 
Who yearn to hear the gentle music tone 
Of some young victim to the early frost ; 

And thou, whose troubled soul, 
Sick of the world's contention, noise and strife, 
And pressing forward to the eternal goal, 
Pants for the waters of immortal life ; 

Come to the better land ! 
Here the beloved shall thy spirit greet. 
Radiant with beauty mid the seraph-band, 
And chanting anthems most divinely sweets 



102 POETRY. 

Here shalt thou find the rest, 
Pilgrim of earth ! for which thy soul did long ; 
And when the golden cup thy lip hath prest, 
Then shall thy spirit be made glad and strong. 

O, maiden young and gay ! 
Dream'st thou that youth and beauty must depart ? 
That clouds will gather o'er thy sunlit way, 
And sorrow quench the gladness of thine heart ? 

When those dark days shall come — 
As come they will — lift up thy tearful eye ! 
O " come up hither " to thy spirit's home, 
Where joys are changeless, and love cannot die ! 

Turn from Ambition's dream, 
Ye who are toiling up the hill of Fame 
For it will prove, all-glorious though it seem, 
A glittering bauble, and an empty name ! 

Break now the bonds of sin ! 
Why waste ye thus the blessings God has given ? 
Who will not strive the " Crown of Life " to win, 
And " come up hither ^^ to the joys of heaven? 



«*0F SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF 
HEAVEN." 

Weep not for the young and the lovely, whose doom, 
In the morning of life, lays them low in the tomb ; 
For the angel of death hath a mission of love. 
To unlock the bright gates of the Eden above ! 



POETRY. 1 03 

O mother ! whose prayers could avail not to save 
The child of thy love from the arms of the grave, 
Look forth from the veil of thy sorrow, and see 
In the desert a fountain is gushing for thee ! 

O weep not for him ! it were better to die 
Ere a cloud had o'ershadowed the clear summer sky ; 
Ere his heart had forgotten youth's beautiful trust, 
Or seen its frail idols fall crumbling to dust. 

O weep not ! though lonely and sad is thy hearth, 
And cheerless the home that once echoed with mirth ; 
For when death lifts the curtain that veileth thine eyes, 
Thou shalt meet thy beloved again in the skies ! 

Weep not ! though the bud in its beauty is crushed, 
Though the lyre in the midst of its anthem is hushed ; 
But with heart full of faith, looking upward to God, 
XJndoubting, unshrinking, '■'■pass under the rod '" 

Mourn not that a spirit too pure for this world 
For the clime of the blessed its pinions unfurled ! 
Rejoice that the fetters which bound him are riven. 
For thou knowest '■'^ of such is the kingdom of Heaven!^* 



MOSSDALE COTTAGE. 

There 's a beautiful village, far, far away. 
To which Fancy is ever returning. 

And a sweet little spot, ever blooming and gay. 
That I think of with homesick yearning. 



104 POETRY. 

Down a green, shady lane, is a lone, quiet glen, 

A brook ripples gently by it ; 
'T is far from the bustle and noise of men, 

And a traveller scarce would descry it. 

Through the trees, peers the roof of a simple cot — 
The woodbines with foliage wreathe it ; — 

And many a monarch might envy the lot 
Of those who are dwelling beneath it. 

Plenty presides at their frugal board. 

Peace spreads her wing o'er their dwelling, 

And night and morn is the Giver adored 
By hearts with gratitude swelling. 

Contented hearts, and industrious hands. 

Make easy their daily labor, 
And while tilling their own, or another's lands, 

They ne'er envy a richer neighbor. 

Wlien the day is past, in the cool, green lane, 
May be heard glad voices greeting ; 

Who would not part for a day to obtain 
The joy of that happy meeting? 

When the Sabbath comes, with its holy rest, 

'Mong the groups that are church-ward wending, 
■ May be seen those cotters, neatly drest, 
To the fane their footsteps bending. 

W^ith meek devotion they hear of Him 

On whose love their thoughts are dwelling ; 

And their eyes with grateful tears are dim, 
From the heart's deep fountains welling. 



POETRY. 105 

The Bible alone is their rule of life, — 
'T is a guide that will fail them never ; 

It will lead them onward through storm and strife, 
And anchor them safe forever. 

Ah ! who would not live, in that humble cot, 

A life of such pure devotion, 
Far rather than share the proudest lot 

In the midst of the world's commotion ? 



FLOWERS. 

I SING of the flowers — the beautiful flowers ! 
They 've a mission pure in this world of ours ; 
They minister gently of hope and love. 
They teach our spirits to look above, 
And we gaze on them till our thoughts arise 
To the glorious bowers of Paradise ! 

Our garden is only a wee bit spot. 

In front of our humble, snow-white cot ; 

And the haughty florist might pass it by. 

As unworthy a glance from his practised eye ; 

But dearer to us than regal bowers 

To a monarch's heart, are our simple flowers. 

We have gorgeous tulips of gold and jet. 
And gaudy scarlet in borders set ; 
We have gay carnations of brilliant hue. 
And the beautiful moss-rose gemmed with dew ; 
And we look 'on them with admiring pride. 
But our love is for those on the other side. 
9 



106 POETRY. 

There, the delicate snow-drop lifts her head, 
And the violet peeps from her lowly bed, 
And the breath of the lily, the pride of the vale, 
Is floating sweet on the balmy gale, 
While round our door the green ivy clings, 
And the fragrant clematis its odor flings. 

Dearly I love the sweet, fragrant flowers ; 

They have cheered and gladdened my lonely hours, 

And many a lesson they bear to me 

Of holiness, meekness and purity. 

O, dreary and sad were this world of ours, 

If God had withheld the bright, beautiful flowers ! 

Fair, gentle blossoms, is death your doom ? 

Shall ye not rise in perennial bloom ? 

Have ye not strayed from that radiant clime 

Where the flowers are unchilled by the frosts of time ? 

Are ye fated, like us, to be dwellers here. 

And sigh for a holier, happier sphere ? 

Beautiful flowers ! when at length I stand, 
Redeemed from sin, on the spirit-land. 
Shall I not greet ye, undimmed and bright, 
By the crystal streams, in that world of light, 
Where they know not the power of death or decay, 
And the sentence no longer is, ^^ passing away I" 



THE OLD WELL. 

Near by my home is a woodland dell, 

Secluded and lone as a hermit's cell : 

No sounds of strife on its stillness come, 

Save the bird's wild note, and the bee's deep hum. 



POETRY. 107 

O, come with me ! — 't is a sultry day ; 
Let us haste to the fairy glen away, 
Where the massive arms of the elm-tree meet, 
And form a shady and cool retreat. 

This is our path, where the busy foot 
Has crushed and trodden each verdant shoot ; 
But on either side the grass looks green, 
And a few wild-flowers mid the tufts are seen. 
Dost see the dell, with its spreading trees ? 
Their leaves are moved by the gentle breeze ; 
While through their branches the deep blue sky 
Peeps here and ,there, like an angel's eye. 

And here is the well, with its curb of stone, 
Ancient and rude, with rich moss o'ergrown ; 
And the merry sunbeams adown it glide, 
And sparkle like gems in the crystal tide. 
I love to gaze in the depths below, 
And to dream of a time, long, long ago, 
When a Pilgrim, with heat and fatigue oppressed, 
By the well of Sychar sat down to rest. 

His raiment was such as the peasants wear. 

And lowly and meek was the stranger's air ; 

But his eye was lit with a holy fire. 

And his voice was sweet as a seraph's lyre. 

I hear that voice, with its accents mild, 

Imparting peace to Samaria's child. 

And bidding her turn, from earth's failing springs. 

To the living waters salvation brings. 

" Give me to drink of that stream ! " she cried, 
" More pure than that which from Horeb's side 



108 POETRY. 

Gushed forth, at a touch of the Prophet's rod — 
The stream that flows from the throne of God ! " 
When I cease to roam through this gxassy dell, 
Or to dream by the brink of this moss-grown well, 
To that deathless Fount may my spirit soar, 
And drink of its waters, and thirst no more ! 



CHURCH BELLS. 

Sonorous-voiced old bells ! 
O, say what magic in your music lies, 
Whose power can summon, from my heart's deep cells 
A host of long, long pent-up memories ? 

Your solemn strains have been 
Sweet as the songs my childhood loved to hear ; 
They 've soothed my spirit, mid life's busy din, 
When chafed by anger, or unnerved by fear. 

Your Sabbath-chimes are heard, 
And countless numbers answer to the call ; 
And the great city's mighty heart seems stirred, 
As if one impulse then pervaded all. 

Ye ring a joyous peal, 
And all the Past lies open to my gaze, 
And sweet remembrances upon me steal, 
As my heart wanders back to childhood's days. 

And sadder thoughts, old bell. 
Your chimes awaken, when the listening ear 
Catches the sound of a beloved one's knell — 
Visions of shrouded form, and pall, and bier. 



POETRY. 109 

Yet dear ye are to me, 
Sweet as my mother's vesper-hymn, old bells ! 
Whether ye echo o'er the sounding sea, 
Or mid the quietude of woody dells. 

Your every tone is fraught 
With some sweet treasure from oblivion won ; 
And many a holy lesson have ye taught 
Me, gentle monitors ! Chime on ! chime on ! 



VIOLETS. 

Pretty, modest violets, 
Smiling, blue-eyed violets ; 
In the grassy meadows sleeping, 
Dewy tears at morning weeping. 
Fair ye are to me ! 

In happy days of childhood, 
Through the shady wildwood, 
I have roamed, a joyous maiden, 
Braiding wreaths, from. baskets laden 
With your clustering stars. 

Many a damsel twists 
Your glistening amethysts. 
Amid the rich, luxuriant tresses, 
Which the soft south wind caresses, 
In his sportive play. 

Fairest of the flowers 
Nursed by April showers, 
9^ 



1 10 POETRY. 

AVTien the long green grass shall wave 
Luxuriant o'er my lowly grave, 
Shed your perfume there ! 

Pretty, purple violets, 
Soft, low-breathing violets, 
I shall hear, at twilight dim, 
The chiming cadence of your hymn, 
Lulling me to rest ! 



HE COMMANDETH LIGHT TO SHINE 
OUT OF DARKNESS." 

Pilgrims of the earth, who roam 
In midnight darkness through life's devious way, 

And from the path that leadeth to your home, 
In helpless ignorance and error, stray ; 

And thou whose mental eye 
Has long been clouded by the films of sin, 

Who o'er thy blindness dost so deeply sigh, 
Yet will not let a ray of light break in ; 

Ye who are bowed with grief, 
Whose hearts with many sorrows have been riven, 

Who seek for consolation and relief, 
Yet spurn the Comforter whom God hath given ; — 

Look o'er the hills afar ! 
Can ye discern no softly-gleaming light ? — 

All hail the rising of yon mdiant star, 
Which shall dispel the deepest shades of night ! 

Through the dark, shadowy vale, 
So fraught with terror to the fearful soul. 

That Star shall light thee, lest thy spirit fail, 
And guide thee onward to the glorious goal. 



POETRY. Ill 

There pain and sorrow cease ; 
There night, and sin, and death, are never known ; 

But angel-voices softly whisper " peace," 
And chant triumphant pasans round the throne ! 



THE FLOWER-GATHERERS. 

FIRST VOICE. 

Come, merry companions, and joyously sing 
The praise of spring-time, the beautiful Spring ! 
From mountain and valley the snow-wreaths are gone, 
And Nature her emerald mantle puts on. 
Come, leave now your lessons, throw down the book, 
And hasten with me to yon green, sunny nook, 
Where the purple violet-clusters grow. 
And the first primroses are wont to blow. 
Come thither with me, then, with basket and knife, 
To the woods, where the early spring-flowers are rife ; 
Where the grass, like a court-belle, in jewels is drest, 
And let each choose the blossom she loveth the best. 
ft 

SECOND VOICE. 

I have roamed through woodland paths to-day. 

Since early dawn, and have borne away 

The fairest and earliest buds of Spring, 

To add to my vernal offering. 

Flowers ! fresh flowers ! from the woody dell, 

Blossoms too fair mid the wilds to dwell — 

Delicate snow-drops, and harebell blue, 

Violets, bathed in the morning dew — 

Violets, sweetest of all to me. 

For they teach me a lesson of modesty ! 



1 12 POETRY* 

THIRD VOICE. 

Flowers ! bright flowers from the shady nook I 
Flowers from the marge of the laughing brook ! 
The cardinal, tossing her head in pride, 
As she leans to gaze in the mirror-tide ; 
The sweet-briar, blushing with modest grace, 
As if half ashamed of her own fair face ; 
The wild morning-glory, the yellow primrose. 
And every blossom that seeks repose. 
And a shield from the glare of the noonday beam, 
On the grassy banks of the crystal stream. 
But the sweetest reward of my ramble and toil 
Is this chance-found treasure, the rare cinquefoil. 

FOURTH VOICE. 

Flowers ! sweet flowers from the meadows green ! 

An oflering meet for a fairy-queen. 

You can find them out, as your footsteps pass 

Their hiding-place in the wavy grass, 

By the fragrant incense that springeth up 

From the drooping bell or the golden cup. 

The dew lay bright on their slender stems,* 

As I rifled each of its brightest gems ; 

I plucked the cowslip, that reared, in pride, 

Its golden head by the daisy's side ; 

And every blossom that 's fair and sweet 

I drew from its shady and lone retreat. 

They are fragrant all, but the dearest far, 

To me, is the small, pale primrose-star ! 

FIFTH VOICE. 

Flowers ! fair flowers ! — do ye not ken 

The far-away bank, where my steps have been ? 



POETRY. 113 

Where the sunshine plays and the south wind blows, 

And the earliest blossoms of Spring unclose ? 

Up the green hill-side, in the pleasant glade, 

Through all sunny spots have my footsteps strayed ; 

And the fairest nurslings of gentle May 

From her favorite haunts I have borne away. 

I culled a bouquet of anemones frail, 

And the sweet-scented lilies, the pride of the vale ; 

'T was long ere I found, in my eager quest, 

The beautiful blossom my heart loves best, — 

But at length I espied, in a lonely spot. 

Half hidden by grass, the forget-me-not ! 

CHOKUS. 

Flowers ! sweet flowers, blest gift of God ! 
Blooming in beauty in paths untrod — 
XJpspringing to gladden the traveller's eye, 
To bloom for a season, then fade and die. 
Floral stars ! unto you is given 
A holiest mission, — ye teach of heaven ! 
Flowers ! fresh flowers from the lonely deli ! 
In the heavenly Eden shall ye not dwell ? 
Flowers ! bright flowers from the sunny nook. 
Culled from the marge of the singing brook ! 
Shall ye not grow by the stream of life. 
In that clime with beauty and fragrance rife ? 

God of the Flowers ! to Thee we raise 
Hymns of thanksgiving and grateful praise ! 
Thy goodness and bounty have given birth 
To all beautiful things on the glad, green earth. 
And made them ministers, gentle and kind, 
Of wisdom and truth to the human mind ! 



114 POETRY. 

A type of humility thou hast set, 

In the delicate, shrinking violet ; 

The primrose speaketh of early youth, — ■ 

May OURS be led in the way of Truth ! 

And lest Thy precepts should be forgot, 

Plant Thou in our hearts the forget-me-not ! 



MUSIC. 

"WRITTEN ON VIEWING THE DIPLOMA OF THE BOSTON MCSICAIi 

INSTITUTE. 

When the Goddess of Song left her throne of light, 
To cheer the earth with her presence bright, 
A while in mid-air she staid her wing. 
And striking her harp, began to sing. 

Far and near, the sweet sounds were heard, 
And jeach human heart felt its pulses stirred ; 
And behold ! at her feet, in homage free. 
Earth's sternest and haughtiest have bent the knee. 

In mute adoration the German knelt ; 
The gay, gallant Frenchman the impulse felt ; 
And the fervent Italian poured forth his praise, 
In his favored country's impassioned lays. ^ 

The caftaned Ottoman ceased to recline. 

And bowed his bright crescent before her shrine ; 

The Indian Chieftain forgot his wrongs. 

And listened entranced to her magic songs. 

She bound the Highlander in silken chains, 
And held him fast with her witching strains ; 
While the son of Afric, with outstretched arms, 
In untutored accents, declared her charms. 



POETRY. 115 

From palace and hovel her praises ring, 
From the toil-worn slave, and the sceptred king; 
Through earth and air they the strains prolong, 
And confess the magical power of Song. 



A DEATH-SCENE. 

" Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord." 

There are sighs and tears in yon darkened room, 
And every face wears the deepest gloom ; 
For visions of coffin, and shroud, and pall, 
Like midnight shades round their spirits fall. 

They have gathered in tears round a loved one's bed, 
Who is soon to repose with the silent dead ; 
And ready they part from her forehead fair 
The clustering tresses of golden hair. 

She is young and gay — will she dare to brave 
The terrors that cling round the darksome grave ? 
Can she listen unmoved to the rushing wing 
Of thy shadowy herald, oh fearful King ! 

Look on her brow — 't is with dread o'ercast ; 
Again — and death's bitterness all is past ! 
No clouds shall e'er darken her spirit more, — 
The SUN has arisen, the night is o'er ! 

" Weep not for me," is her earnest cry ; 
" Ye know not how blissful it is to die. 
When the spirit looks through the outer veil, 
To the shrine of the great Invisible ' 



116 POETRY. 

" The valley of death has no gloom for me ; 
For ever before me my Saviour I see ; 
His arm is my staff, and he leadeth me on, 
Till the portals of heaven my spirit hath won. 

" O, then with triumphant thanksgiving and praise, 
The song of redemption forever I '11 raise ; 
The world, with its pleasures, recedes from my view,— » 
Till 1 meet you in heaven, beloved ones, adieu ! " 

'T is over — the soul, from its prison of clay, 
To the land of the blessed hath taken its way ; 
But a smile, like a sunbeam, yet lingers above 
The lips whose last accents breathed mercy and love. 

O, happy the soul that can fearlessly brook 
On the presence of death, with-its terrors, to look ! 
That can lift to the cross an unwavering 'feye, 
And, with faith in the promises, joyfully die ! 



MARY. 

How can I sing of thee, Mary, 
My beautiful, my own ! 
For thou liest low, where the violets grow. 

And the turf is thy headstone, Mary ! 

Yet mourn I not for thee, Mary — 
I would not call thee back ! 
Though my home is lone, and the music tone 
Of thy voice I ever lack, Mary ! 

I think of thy gentle smile, Mary, 
And thy pure unsullied truth, 
And I call thee blest, who hast gone to rest, 
In the morning of thy youth, Mary ! 



POETRY. 117 

Though other lips may smile, Mary, 
And eyes with lustre shine, 
Yet still to me there 's nought like thee, 

And those blue orbs of thine, Mary ? 

And oh, 'tis a pleasant thought, Mary, 
To cheer the sorrowing given. 
Though the flower is crushed, and the love tone hushed, 
We shall meet in heaven, Mary ! 

But I cannot wait the time, Mary, 
Till I shall meet thee there ! 
I must see thee now, with thy holy brow. 

And thy face so meek and fair, Mary ! 

Come in night-visions, Mary, 
With thy soft, seraph smile ; 
O, speak once more as thou didst of yore ; — 
Come, and my grief beguile, Mary ! 



SONG. 

When the dark shadows of night come on, 
And the winds are revelling free. 

Or, sleepless, I watch for the coming dawn, 
Then, dearest, I think of thee ! 

When morning wakes, with her glowing smile, 
And gildeth each flower and tree. 

She has no power my thoughts to beguile, 
For they are engrossed by thee ! 

I hie me away to the crowded ball, 

And the merriest seem to be ; 

And gayly I tread the festive hall — 

But I only think of thee ! . 
10 



118 POETRY. 

Unheeding, I list to the viol's tone, 
And the laugh of careless glee ; 

But I long for the hour to be alone, 
To sleep, and to dream of thee ! 



THE FIRST COMMUNION. 

The table of the Crucified, the blessed Lord, was set, 
And round the sacred board the few, the well-beloved, 

were met; 
While the young herald of the Cross, with earnest voice 

and eye. 
Told how the Son of God was bom to suffer and to die ! 

He spake, in deeply moving tones, of dark Gethsemane, 
And bade his listeners behold the Mount of Calvary ; 
And, as the fearful scenes arose, their eyes with tears 

grew dim, 
And each believing heart was stirred with sympathy for 

him. 

The old, with deeply furrowed cheek and silver locks, 
were there ; 

The brightly beaming eye of youth, the pale, wan cheek 
of care ; 

The sinful came, with quaking heart, but met no wither- 
ing frown, 

And at the feet of Jesus laid their heavy burthens down. 

And one there was amid the group, who ne'er had dared 

before 
With Christians to commemorate the sufferings Jesus 

bore ; 



POETRY. 1 19 

Although her spirit long had yearned, amid its deepest 

night, 
To burst the iron doors of sin, and hail the glorious light. 

The maiden was not one to whom the flatterer paid his 

vow, 
For beauty ne'er had shed its light upon her dark, sad 

brow ; 
Her voice had nought of music, and her step was void of 

grace, 
And Genius added not a charm to that unlovely face. 

But, oh ! she had a loving heart, that mourned, although 
in vain, 

To see its wealth, poured freely forth, return unblest 
agtiin; 

And so, with bowed and contrite soul — to Him an offer- 
ing sweet — 

She laid its priceless treasures down at her Redeemer's 
feet! 



A DREAM OF HEAVEN. 

My spirit dreams of a blessed land, 
And peoples its shores with an angel-band; 
Its skies are cloudless, and pure its air. 
And all that is lovely is centred there. 

There living fountains of water burst, 
And he who drinketh shall never thirst ; 
And blossoms of beauty, that cannot die, 
Spring up to gladden the traveller's eye. 



120 POETRY. 

And sweeter strains in those realms are heard 
Than gush from the throat of a woodland bird ; 
And loftier far than the trumpet's tone, 
That tells of a glorious victory won. 

For God's redeemed are the minstrels there ; 
There songs of praise and thanksgiving are ; 
No sigh of grief, and no thought of sin. 
To that bright Elysium can enter in. 

But dearer far to the bleeding heart. 

That here from its treasures was doomed to part, 

Is the glad assurance, " On that blest shore 

Thy loved ones shall greet thee, to part no more." 

A glorious dream ! but it soon shall be 
Displaced by the bright reality ; 
When every kindred, name, and tongue, 
Shall join at length in Salvation's song ! 



THE MAGDALENE. 

She Cometh to the house of God, 

That lone, neglected one, 
More solitary mid the crowd 

Than is the cloistered nun ! 
And curious eyes are bent on her, 

When first she takes her seat ; 
But no kind hand doth welcome her, 

No smiles her presence greet. 

O, she is fair and beautiful, 
Though many a graven line 



POETRY. 121 

Remorse has left upon the heart 

That should be virtue's shrine ; 
Yet amid all the stateliness 

That might become a queen, 
A look of earnest penitence 

And lowliness is seen. 

And when the preacher speaks of those 

From virtue led astray, 
And of the Holy Fount whose stream 

Can wash all sin away, 
With clasped hands, and upraised eye, 

And half-choked, sobbing breath, 
She listens to the sounds that burst 

The iron bars of death ! 

And others hear the sacred words. 

And His great love adore. 
Who said unto the erring one, 

" Go thou, tind sin no more ! " 
And yet they turn away from her. 

With looks of withering scorn ; 
Forgetting that to such as she 

Those soothing words were borne. 

But long the minister of Christ 

Had marked that lonely one ; 
He saw the young and fair pass by, 

The pure her presence shun ; 
He saw her meekly bear the cross 

She bathed in tears of blood, 
And something whispered in his soul, 

*' She is a child of God!" 



122 POETRY. 

And so, one day, when all had passed 

The erring creature by, 
And many a one had sought to catch 

The youthful pastor's eye. 
He came to that lone being's side. 

And spake in accents bland, 
A few, but kindly, cordial words. 

And frankly gave his hand. 

It stirred the fountains of her heart. 

And mid that gathered crowd, 
Heedless of all their whispered scorn, 

She stood, and wept aloud I 
O, never more to sin's dark way 

Shall that poor soul return ; 
The holy flame relighted then 

Shall never cease to bum. 

And blessings -on his earnest heart. 

Who fearlessly hath trod 
In the beloved Master's steps, — 

" The pure in heart see God ! " 
All things shall prosper in his hands ; 

His deeds his truth shall prove ; 
Salvation is his triumph-song, 

His ministry is Love ! 



TO A TEMPERANCE LECTURER. 

" How beautiful the feet of him " who sheds 
A precious ointment upon drooping heads ! 
Who o'er the darkened soul a sunbeam flings, 
And the glad message of salvation brings ! 



POETRY. 123 

Unfurl thy banner, herald brave and true ! 
Press nobly onward, — there 's a work to do ! 
Forth from the platform be thy thunders hurled ; 
Rouse with thy clarion voice the slumbering world! 

Father ! who gazest on thy gallant son. 
The well-beloved, and thine only one. 
Hast thou no fear, lest, in unguarded youth, 
His feet shall wander from the way of Truth? 

Mother ! who cradlest on thy yearning breast 
Thy infant daughter to her peaceful rest, 
Canst thou, who watchest o'er her budding charms, 
GiA'e thy beloved to a drunkard's arms ? 

Paront and daughter, sister, friend, and wife ! 
Is there no object, dearer than thy life. 
Hound whom the fibres of the heart entwine. 
Whose joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, are thine ? 

Enter the lists against the mighty foe, 
Who brings the lovely and the gifted low. 
Blights the affections with his poison-breath. 
And dooms his victims to a living death ! 

And thou, oh herald ! onward, in thy might, 
TilLearth be bathed in Truth's refulgent light. 
Till Sin, dark tyrant, from his throne be hurled. 
And Freedom's banner from our heights unfurled ! 



IIEMINISCENCES. 

There '-s a sunny spot that my childhood knew, 
Where I used to roam when the skies were blue, 
When the lowly vale and the mountain height 
Were bathed in a flood of golden light. 



124 POETRY. 

'T was far fvom the busy haunts of men,' 
Away in a deep, romantic glen. 
Where the woodland birds their matins sung, 
And their tiny nests in the elm-trees hung. 

And there, from the brightest, sunniest nook, 
Leaped merrily forth a crystal brook. 
That sparkled and danced in its joyous glee, 
And sung like a captive bird set free. 

There the violet blue, and the golden-rod, 
And the purple foxglove, bedecked the sod ; 
And nature seemed to have gathered there 
All that was beautiful, bright and fair. 

'T was a quiet spot, and I long to roam 

Once more in the haunts round my early home ; 

To sit and read in that cozy nook. 

Or follow the course of the laughing brook. 

To watch the glorious sunlight gleam 
Like a radiant crown in the silver stream, 
And to gather flowers from its banks once more 
To wreath in my curls, as in days of yore. 

Once more on the fresh greensward to lie, 
And, gazing up at the clear blue sky, 
To number the stars as forth they come, 
A glittering host in the spacious dome. 

It may not be ! I may rove again 
Through the meadow-paths or the grassy lane ; 
I may cull sweef flowers by the brooklet's side, 
And braid my hair in its mirror tide ; 



POETRY. 125 

•I may laugh, but not with the careless mirth 
That erst like a wild bird's note gushed forth ; 
For never again shall the lightsome glee 
Which gladdened those hours return to me. 

I have learned the lessons of later years, 
To smile at grief with a heart in tears, 
To scoff at the blessed romance of youth. 
And mock whate'er bears the name of Truth. 

Oft, wearied and sick of life's vain parade, 
I sigh for an humble and quiet shade, 
And a spirit tameless and free, as when 
My world was comprised in that narrow glen. 



THE^INSTREL BRIDE. 

iThe accompanying stanzas were suggested by an engraving, entitled the 
"Bridal Wreath," representing two females, one wreathing the hair of the 
other with orange-blossoms. The face of the bride, though beautiful, wore an 
expression of intense melancholy, which attracted my attention, and sug- 
gested a little romance, which I have woven into verse, as follows :] 

Twine not amid my tresses now 

Those orange-blossoms fair ! 
Their beauty ill befits this brow, — 

They '11 fade and wither there. 
And take these glistening pearls away, — 

Their purity would shame 
The unquiet breast whereon they lay, 

That bartered peace for fame. 

Those beautiful, pale orange-flowers ! 

What dreams of olden time. 
Of vanished joys, departed hours. 

And my own sunny climoj 



126 POETRY. 

They bring before my aching eyes, 

Until I yearn to be 
Once more beneath thy sapphire skies, 

Mine own fair Italy ! 

Those skies, they never look so blue. 

In this far distant land ; 
And hearts are colder, friends are few 

To press the stranger's hand. 
I loathe this carved and gilded dome, 

With gorgeous tap'stries hung ! 
O, give me back my childhood's home. 

Where first my lute was strung ! 

Why did I leave that vine-clad cot, 

To gain a prouder name, 
And bear a minstrel's chequered lot, 

To win a minstrel's fame ? ^ 
I deemed that was the highest bliss. 

The triumph of my art ! 
I left my native land for this, 

And broke a trusting heart ! 

My laurel wreath with blood is stained — 

How great hath been its cost ! 
What is the glory I have gained, 

Compared with what I Ve lost ? 
Earth's proudest ones have sought my shrine, 

And offered incense there ; 
But gladly would I all resign, 

A quiet heart to bear ! 

Ye 've twined the bridal orange-wreath 

Amid my raven hair ; 
Alas ! the brow that smiles beneath 

Doth hide a weight of care ! 



POETEY. 127 

Ye deem it strange, a " blessed bride " 

Should weep on such a day, — 
And 't is not well, — but do not chide — 

I '11 wipe my tears away ! 

There ! that 's the last ! one heart-wrung sigh, 

To olden memories given — 
One burning tear to days gone by, 

To ties forever riven \^ 
And now lead on ! the pang is o'er ; 

Let weal or woe betide, 
No chance or change can evermore 

Affect the Minstrel Bride ! 



THE DYING WIFE TO HER HUSBAND 

Beloved ! the hour has come — 
I must bid thee a sad farewell; 

For my listening ear 

Doth plainly hear 
The sound of the passing bell ! 

Thy home will be dark and drear, 
And thy heart will be sad and lone ; 
Thou wilt miss the smile 
That was wont to beguile 
Thy sorrowful hours, my own ! 

I shall wander no more by thy side, 
When Spring is abroad in the earth ; 

Nor sit, at night. 

By the cheerful light 
Of the fire on the wintry hearth ! 



128 POETRY. 

Thou wilt miss me at break of day, 
At the season of morning prayer, 
And at twilight dim, 
When the evening hymn 
Floats up, on the dewy air ! 

Art thou thinking now, beloved, 
Of a bright, sunshiny morn, 

Whe^at thy side, 

A happy bride, 
I stood, but a year agone ? 

Yet 't is better to perish thus, 
In the May of our love, I ween. 
Ere clouds have come 
To our pleasant home. 
And rested our hearts between ! 

I cannot recall a look 
Of anger or discontent ; 

No poisoned dart 

To either heart 
Has a word of unkindness sent ! 

Thou wilt not forget me, love, 

When the long grass weaves o'er my head ^ 

But bring fresh flowers. 

At our favorite hours, 
And scatter them o'er my bed ! 

Their fragrance shall upward rise 

To the beautiful spirit land j 
Where I will greet, 
With remembrance sweet, 

The token from thy dear hand ! 



POETRY. 129 

Angels, with, starry wings, 
Are waiting to bear me above ; 

They fan my brow, 

They whisper now, 
" Come away to the land of love ! " 

Seek not to hold me here ; 
My spirit with joy doth swell, 

I upward spring 

On seraph wing — 
They call me — beloved, farewell .' 



A SKETCH. 
'T WAS a low cottage, half embowered in trees, 
Visited only by the wandering breeze, 
And the gay sunbeam, that came dancing through 
The leaves and flowers, glittering with dew, 
Making them sparkle brighter than the gems 
That blaze on eastern monarch's diadems. 
Over a porch, by rustic pillars made, 
A honey-suckle cast its fragrant shade. 
While through the open windows of the room 
The blossoms crept, and shed a sweet perfume. 
Within, all wore an air of quiet grace. 
Simplicity seemed the goddess of the place ; 
And there, like some fair marble statue, lay 
A victim to consumption's slow decay — 
A girl so beautiful, you well might deem 
Her the creation of some poet's dream. 
Listless she lay, and languid with disease, 
A book, half opened, dropt upon her knees, 
And o'er her blue-veined temples, white and cold, 
Her rich hair swept like waves of unspun gold. 
11« 



130 POETRY. 

The thick fringed lids half closed above an eye 
Blue and unclouded as a Naples 'sky ; 
And on her couch some faded roses lay, 
A fitting emblem of her own decay. 
Above her pillow the pale mother bends, 
The kindest, fondest, of all earthly friends ; 
Now turns aside the clustering tresses — now 
Wipes the chill moisture from her wasted brow. 
But, at the close of a bright summer's day. 
Paler than she was wont, the maiden lay ; 
For her young heart had wrestled hard with death 
And toiled and struggled for her feeble breath. 
And those who loved her sadly watched to see 
Her spirit from its mortal coil set free. 
She passed away — but those around her bed 
Knew not the moment when the arrow sped ; 
They made her grave beneath a grassy knoll, 
Where in the days of health she loved to stroll. 
No marble marks the place of her repose, 
But every flower she loved around it grows. 
And as their fragrance o'er her grave they shed, 
Seem to hold sweet communion with the dead ! 



THE MOTHERLESS. 

God help and shield the motherless ! 

The stricken, bleeding dove. 
For whom there gushes no rich fount 

Of deep and deathless love ! 
The saddest title grief confers — 

For who so lone as they 
Upon whose path a mother's love 

Sheds not its holy ray ? 



POETRY. 131 

No gentle form above them bends, 

To soothe the couch of pain ; 
No voice so fond as hers essays 

To calm the feverish brain. 
O ! other tongues may whisper love, 

In accents soft and mild, 
But none on earth so pure as that 

A mother bears her child ! 

Round every fibre of her heart 

His welfare is entwined, 
And in its deepest recesses 

His image is enshrined ! 
A father may grow cold and stem, 

Or absence may estrange ; 
But, oh, a mother's loving heart 

Defies the power of change ! 

Deal gently with the motherless, 

O, fair and stately bride, 
Who comest to thy wedded home 

In all thy youthful pride, 
And takest on thyself at once 

A new and sacred tie ; 
Hast thou a mother's patient love, 

Her earnest watchful eye ? 

Canst thou forego thy wonted ease. 

To minister to him. 
And watch beside his restless couch. 

Till those bright eyes grow dim ? 
For these are all a mother's tasks, 

These pale the raven tress ; 
And, gay young step-dame,, canst thou brave 

This, for the motherless ? 



132 POETRY. 

O, look upon the blooming child, 

And think of her who died 
While life seemed all so beautiful, 

And she was in her pride ! 
Eejoice, that 't is thy happy lot 

To cherish and to bless ; 
And, oh, let none but kindly words 

E'er greet the motherless ! 

Judge kindly of the motherless ! 

A weary lot is theirs. 
And oft the heart that gayest seems 

A load of sorrow bears. 
No faithful voice directs their steps, 

Or bids them onward press ; 
" And if they gang a kennin wrang," 

God help the motherless ! 

And when the sinful and the frail. 

The tempted and the tried. 
Unspotted one ! shall cross thy path, 

O, spurn them not aside ! 
Thou knowest not what thou hadst been, 

With trials even less ; 
And when thy lips would vent reproach, 

Think — they were motherless I 

A blessing on the motherless, 

Where'er they dwell on earth — 
Within the home of childhood. 

Or at the stranger's hearth ! 
Blue be the sky above their heads, 

And bright the sun within ! 
O, God protect the motherless, 

And keep them free from sin ! 



POETRY. 133 



CHARITY HYMN. 

Our Father, God ! who hear'st the cry 
Of the young ravens in their need, 
And sendest them a full supply, — 
Wilt thou not hear thy children plead ? 

Our table is with plenty spread, 
With love divine our cup runs o'er. 
And countless blessings on our head 
Thy hand has showered, a bounteous store ! 

And shall we hear a brother's moan. 
And stretch not forth a hand to aid ? 
Or list, unmoved, the heart-wrung groan 
Of those on beds of suffering laid ? 

O Father ! touch each selfish heart, 
And bid it with compassion glow ; 
That, to the poor, it may impart 
A share of all thou dost bestow ! 

And let the offering be pure ; 
Then shall it meet its own reward ! 
What cheerfully we give the poor 
Is but a loan to thee, oh Lord ! 



INSTALLATION HYMN. 

Lord ! in this portion of thy fold, 
We come to consecrate to-day 

A shepherd, lest the foe grow bold, 
And lead the guileless lambs astray I 
11^ 



134 POETRY. 

Here may he labor mid his flock, 

And feed their souls with heavenly bread, 

Bid waters gush from out the rock, 

And flowers of hope spring where they tread * 

And when, from many a cheerless home, 
Hearts burdened and oppressed with grief, 

Or sin, shall to this temple come, 
O, may he give them sweet relief ! 

Bless him, our Father ! give him zeal. 
And faith, and hope, and holy love ; 

And oh, at length his labors seal. 
And take him to thy rest above ! 



THE TRUE CHRISTIAN. 

*' By their fruits ye shall know them.'' 

-«- 

Not by the outward show. 
The church attendance, or the loud-voiced prayers, 

Nor by the lengthened visage, shalt thou know 
Him who the signet of the Master bears. 

Not he who proudly stalks 
Into the fane, with grave and solemn face ; 

Who of high truth and justice talks, 
And cheats his neighbor in the market-place, — 

Not he who giveth ear, 
When foul-mouthed slander doth his friends defame 5 

And heedeth not the lonely orphan's tear. 
Is meet to bear the blest Redeemer's name I 



POETRY. 135 

But look ! behold the man 
Who on his neighbor's rights has never trod ; 

He who his brother's faults doth gently scan, 
And walketh humbly with his Maker, God ! 

His voice is never heard 
In loud contention, or in noisy strife ; 

But in his deeds he showeth forth the word, 
And preacheth sermons in his daily life ! 

He never says " depart," 
To those who crave compassion at his door ; 

But widely openeth his generous heart, 
And gives them freely from his own good store. 

And to the widowed one. 
Who feels bereft of every joy on earth, 

His kindly smile seems, like the rising sun, 
To scatter light and comfort round her hearth. 

Joy is his constant guest ! 
No terrors keep his peaceful soul in thrall ; 

Lo, the true Christian ! blessings on him rest, 
Where'er his heaven-directed footsteps fall ! 



HUMILITY, HOPE AND TRUTH. 

INSCRIBED TO A YOUNG MAIDEN. 

There 's a flower that blooms in a sheltered spot, 
Where the glare of noonday can harm it not; 
And it feels not a touch of the whirlwind's stroke. 
That scathes and crushes the mighty oak. 



136 POETRY. 

There 's a star that gleams with a holy light, 
The brightest gem in the crown of night ; 
Its soft ray enters the sinking heart, 
And bids its sorrows and gloom depart . 

There 's a lustrous pearl that no Indian mine 
E'er yielded the seeker ; oh, make it thine ! 
Let it softly gleam on thy forehead fair, 
A brighter jewel than monarchs wear ! 

Maiden ! that flower hath a voice to thee ; 

On its petals is 'written Humility ! 

And when in darkness thy footsteps grope, 

May thy way be lit by the star of Hope ; 

And that gem, on thy brow may it brightly shine, 

For the pearl of Truth is a gem divine ! 



THE NAME. 

A NAME is ringing through my brain ! 
It brings alternate joy and pain ; 
Now sounds it like a funeral knell, 
And now sweet tales of love doth tell. 

When through the blossoming flowers I stray. 

That name arrests me on my way ; 

It haunteth e'en my very sleep, 

And then I wake, to muse and weep. • 

Surely I heard that well-known sound, — 
It made my sickened heart rebound ; 
Alas ! 't was but my fancy gave 
The name of him whose home 's the grave I 



POETRY. 137 

Surely 1 saw that rich black eye 
Fixed with an earnest scrutiny 
Upon my face ; — 't was but a dream, — 
Those orbs no more on me shall gleam ! 

Sure o'er my couch that proud form bent, 
With life and beauty redolent ; 
That voice — it made my bosom swell. 
It breathed the name I loved so well. 

Be still, my heart ! that voice no more 
Shall breathe the tones I loved of yore. 
I sunk his tokens in the wave ; 
I sent him to his early grave ! 

That name — that ne'er forgotten name — 
Again athwart my brain it came ; — 
Ah, once 't was music to my ear, 
But now I dread its sound to hear ! 

'T was through my folly that he died, 
And I am now another's bride ; 
'T is this that dyes my cheek with shame •— 
For this I dread to hear that name ! 



THE OLD WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. 

We have been young together - — 
We shall never forget those hours. 
When our footsteps strayed 
Through the pleasant glade. 
And the sunny woodland bowers. 



138 POETRY. 

We have been glad together — 

We have frolicked and danced along, 

Till the birchen glen 

Reechoed again 
The notes of our mirthful song. 

We have seen bright days together, 
When plenty hath crowned our board ; 
And the gifts of wealth, 
And the joys of health, 
Were lavishly round us poured. 

We have been sad together. 
When side by side we 've stood, 

With dropping tear, 

At the lowly bier 
Of the beautiful, young, and good ! 

We have grown old together- — 
But we have not forgot our prime ; 

And our hearts are still 

Like the leaping rill 
In the beautiful summer-time ! 

Though now we are poor together, 

O, let not our spirits fail ; 

For our hearts are warm, 
And we '11 brave the storm, 

As we 've borne the prosperous gale ! 

" We have lived and loved together " — 
And the boon that we most do crave 

Is, that when we die, 

We may calmly lie, 
Side by side, in the peaceful grave ! 



rOETRY. 139 

THE WIDOW'S TREASURES. 

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE. 

It was a lady in life's sunny prime, 

Whom grief had touched, and not the hand of time ; 

Yet had her form lost not its willowy grace, 

And passing beautiful was that pale face. 

One arm was thrown around a lovely child, 

On whom as yet scarce seven summers smiled — 

A fairy girl, with locks of clustering gold. 

And deep blue eyes, that well her lineage told. 

They stood together in a stately room.. 
Where odorous vases shed a rich perfume. 
And through the windows opening to the ground 
The jasmine crept, and shed its fragrance round. 
The crimson curtains cast a rosy shade 
On costly tables, gold and pearl inlaid ; 
Soft, silken couches, wooing to repose. 
And all the luxuries refinement knows ; 
While all around resplendent mirrors shone, 
Reflecting back the pomp they gazed upon. 

But ah ! it is not on the gilded wall. 
Nor gem, nor pearl, that lady's eye doth fall ; 
Say, does she seek, in that young, lovely face, 
The noble features of her sire to trace ? 
The open forehead, all untouched by care, 
The deep blue eyes, and sunny auburn hairf 
And the bright smile, which, in her girlish pride, 
Won the gay maiden to the soldier's side ? 

That widow's cap, those dark eyes veiled in tears, 
Reveal the early blight upon her years ! 



140 POETRY. 

But though the sunbeam from her path is gone, 
Although the hearth is desolate and lone, — 
Though, since his burial, she has never smiled, 
Save in endearment to her darling child, — 
Yet is she not like those who scorn relief, 
And give free vent unto an idle grief; 
But ever, outwardly, serene and calm, 
Into the wounded bosom pouring balm, 
Aiding the poor, relieving the distrest, 
And to the troubled spirit whispering — rest ! 

Deep in her heart his memory is enshrined, 

With every hope of future bliss entwined. 

Though still so young, so rich, and passing fair, 

Yet would the wildest tempter never dare 

With flattering words her pure ear to assail. 

For her proud glance would make the stoutest quail. 

Yet can her eye, at times so sternly bright. 

Dissolve in floods of soft and tender light ; 

And that high brow bend with sweet love and pride 

On the fair creature smiling at her side. 

For her she lives, and 'neath her training hand. 
She sees the beauteous blossom still expand ; 
With careful skill, removes the noxious weeds, 
The canker-worm that on its beauty feeds ; 
With caution, screens it from the sun's full glare, 
And shields it from the mildew-blight of care. 

They call her rich, because a princely hall 
Her dwelling is, and servants wait her call. 
In liveried throngs ; and she has glittering gems 
That shame the pomp of eastern diadems. 



POETRY. 141 

But there are treasures dearer to her heart 
Than all this lavish splendor can impart ; 
More precious far than diamond or the pearl, — 
Her husband^s memory, and her orphan girl ! 



A MEMORIAL OF HAPPY DAYS. 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO S. C. E. 

Dost thou remember, Sarah, those sunny days gone by, 

When the hours, on fairy pinions, like minutes seemed 
to fly? ; 

When the glorious Indian summer smiled on mountain- 
top and plain, 

And the farmer's heart exulted in his stores of golden 
grain? 

The earth had not yet wholly doffed her robes of eme- 
rald green, 

And the brilliant hues of Autumn added beauty to the 
scene. 

The sun its gorgeous splendors shed on valley, hill and 
stream, 

And in our hearts as brightly did Aifection's sunlight 
gleam ! 

And dost thou not remember all the pleasant walks we 

took? 
That woodland path, that wound along the margin of a 

brook. 
On whose clear breast, like glory-rays, the glittering 

sunbeams played ; 
And the slant old trees, whose shadows fell athwart the 

forest glade ? 
12 



142 POETRY. 

O, many a richly varied scene, of river, wood and glen, 
Within a city's bounds, yet far from busy haunts of 

men, — 
Scenes that together we enjoyed, — doth Fancy now 

delight 
To bring, in startling vividness, each hour, before my 

sight. 

Those halcyon hours, all too bright, too beautiful, to last, 
O, can they e'er become to me dim records of the past ? 
Hath not each well-remembered look, each tone of love, 

a spell ? 
Are they not fondly garnered up in Memory's choicest 

cell? 

The/riends whose love and kindness made those days so 
truly blest, 

Howe'er they may be sundered now, a blessing on them 
rest ! 

The group who sadly seek a new and less beloved home. 

May fortune smile upon their path, where'er their foot- 
steps roam ! 

To her who meekly languishes upon a couch of pain, 
O, speedily may Heaven restore the boon of health again ! 
To glad the hearts to whom her smile is dear as light 

of day. 
And bid the angel Joy return where Grief hath held her 

sway. 

God bless those " Soldiers of the Cross ! " the zealous, 
brave and true, 

Who side by side fought valiantly, whose " souls to- 
gether grew ! " 



POETRY. 143 

Long may their clarion-voices sound salvation through 

the land, 
And every work of Love Divine be prospered in their 

hand ! 

Why ask, — " Dost thou remember ? " — oh, canst thou 

e'er forget 
That gay and happy circle who in sweet communion 

met? 
Will not those pleasant memories still linger round thine 

heart, 
Like withered flowers, whose scent remains when life 

and bloom depart ? 

O, never more, perchance, that group shall gather round 
one hearth, 

For chance and change, too well we know, mark every- 
thing of earth ! 

But in the glorious spirit-clime, where endless spring- 
time dwells, 

A happier meeting shall be ours, that knows no sad 
farewells ! 

» 

THE LONELY ONE. 

[My attention has long been attracted, at church, by an aged, decrepit 
woman, who, on each successive Sabbath, totters slowly up the broad aisle, to 
her accustomed seat near the pulpit, and always reminds me forcibly of the 
" Widow," in one of Irving's most beautiful and heart-stirring sketches. She 
goes in and out before the people, and no one speaks to or seems to care for 
her, though in all the congregation there is no more devout listener ; and 
her utter loneliness has suggested the following lines : ] 

I HAVE oft remarked, in the sacred fane, 

A figure tottering slowly 
Along the aisle, as if bowed with pain, — 

The lowliest mid the lowly. 



144 POETRY. 

I Ve bent on her often an earnest gaze, 
And have seen the tear-drops glisten, 

When the choir are chanting the hymn of praise, 
To which none more intently listen. 

And when the incense of grateful prayer 
To the throne of grace ascendeth. 

Of all the throng that are gathered there, 
Not one more devoutly bendeth. 

It gives me a pain — I know not why — 

As I look on that aged mourner, 
When the service is over, and all pass by, 

With a glance at her lonely corner. 

Yet faint not, desolate heart, — bear up ! 

Thou art not Gon-forsaken, 
And though thou drainest the bitter cup, 

O, let not thy faith be shaken ! 

Though thy locks are white, and thy eye is dim, 

And thy feeble footsteps falter. 
What matters it all, if unto Him 

Thou hast reared in thine heart an altar ! 

Thou shalt see his glory and feel his love. 
That with mercy has ever crowned thee, 

In the glittering hosts of the stars above. 
And all beautiful things around thee ! 

The morning sunlight, the noontide showers. 
The earth with their freshness laving; 

Do they not fall from the Eden bowers. 
Where the banner of lorn is waving? 



POETRY. 



145 



Then heed thou not — though the young and gay- 
Regard thee with contumely ; 

With the smile of the Master to bless thy way, 
Pass on, and forgive them freely ! 

When the proud the finger of scorn shall point, 

O, breathe not a sigh of sadness ! 
For He who hath loved thee shall then anoint 

Thy heart with the oil of gladness ! 



PRAYER OF THE SAILOR'S WIFE. 
Father in Heaven ! O, hear mine earnest pleading ! 

Let not thine ear be deaf to my complaint ! 
Thou who thy creatures' wants art ever heeding, 

O, give me succor, lest my spirit faint ! 

One whom I love is on the foaming ocean, 
And my fond, fearful heart forebodeth ill ; 

Thou who canst calm the turbid waves' commotion. 
Say to the troubled waters — " Peace, be still ! " 

O, let the banner of thy love wave o'er him ! 

Trace thou his pathway on the mighty deep ! 
And to his home, at length, in peace restore him. 

To glad the eyes that for his safety weep ! 

Ten moons have passed since these same lips did falter 
Vows of affection at my loved one's side ; 

And happy voices round thy sacred altar 

Hailed me, and blessed me, as my sailor's bride. 

Father ! if now thy hand that tie shall sever. 
If 't was thy will that we so soon should part, 

O, let me feel that it is not forever ! 

Give me an humble and submissive heart ! 

12^ 



146 POETRY. 

If, in my sinful ignorance and blindness, 
Father ! I murmur at thy sovereign will, 

O, teach my heart to feel thy loving-kindness ! 
Bid its rebellious murmurings be still ! 

Teach me to bear with humble resignation 
All thine allotments, whether good or ill ! 

Father ! receive mine earnest supplication. 
And with thy holy peace my bosom fill ! 



GENEVIEVE. 

SUGGESTED BV AN EXQUISITE PICTURE, PAINTED BY T. B. READ. 

Beautiful eyes of clear sapphire blue, 

Outrivalling heaven's serenest hue ! 

They haunt me whithersoe'er I roam. 

Like pleasant thoughts of my childhood's home, 

Or the dewy light of a summer eve ; 

O, whence is their power, bright Genevieve ? 

They are downward cast, as in maiden shame — 
Hast thou caught the sound of thy loved one's name ? 
Does the delicate tint on thy soft, warm cheek, 
Of bashful young love, in its morning, speak ? 
Dost thou fear lest some cold, strange eye should per- 
ceive 
Thy heart's treasured secret, sweet Genevieve ? 

Thou art hearing a tale of wrecked love, I trow, 

For a shade of sadness is on thy brow. 

O'er which thy tresses of hazel-gold 

(The hue the laburnum's bright buds unfold) 

In wavy beauty luxuriant flow, 

Like sunset rays on a wreath of snow. 



POETRY. 147 

O mighty Genius ! thy wondrous power 
Confers on thy children a glorious dower ! 
Thou biddest the poet rehearse his lay, 
And crown'st him immortal, with wreaths of bay; 
Thy magic spell round the sculptor is thrown, 
And beauty is born from the lifeless stone I 

Thy spirit is breathed in the painter's soul. 
And he pants to arrive at the glorious goal, 
Perfection ! he enters the charmed ring, 
And breathing forms from his pencil spring. 
O, happy the artist whose skill can weave 
Such radiant fancies as Genevieve ! 



SONG. 

i DID not love thee first ! My heart 
Hath whispered words as fond before ; 

But I have seen bright dreams depart. 
And skies the clearest clouded o'er. 

I did not feel for thee that burst 

Of Passion's wild and startling flame 

I felt for her I loved the first, 

If such may bear love's holy name ! 

T^hat^ meteor-like, in darkness set ; 

This brightly beams, life's morning-star ! 
I did not love thee firsts but yet, 

Thou knowest I love thee better far ! 

The frosts of time shall never chill 
The fount of passion pure as this ; 

It shall go on increasing still, 

And added years bring added bliss ! 



/ 



14S POETRY. 

And when the parting hour shall come, 
Strong in the love that blessed us here, 

We '11 seek a brighter, happier home, 
Together, in yon radiant sphere ! 



ON THE DEATH OF MISS E. A. HOLT, 
There are forms with sorrow bending, 
There are hearts in sackcloth drest; 
^ For a loved one hath departed 
To the silent land of rest ! 
Wail for the young and beautiful, 

The gay and glad of heart ; 

Yet sorrow not as hopeless ones, 

Who see their loved depart ! 

She has faded like a flower 

Which the spring-time shall renew, 
With sunshine and with shower. 

And the gently-falling dew. 
And though she sleep unconscious 

'Neath the snow-enmantled sod, 
She shall wake to glorious beauty 

In the garden of our God ! 

She has vanished like a meteor 

From our dim, bewildered sight ; 
But the spirit, like that pilgrim-star, 

Tends to the source of Light ; 
And though through realms of space unknown 

To mortal ken it roam, 
Yet He who marks the comet's track 

Will guide the spirit home. 



POETRY. !^ 

Mother, upon whose faithful breast 

In infancy she slept, 
Seek not to stay thy gushing tears, — 

We know that Jesus wept. 
And to the heart surcharged with woe 

It is a sweet relief, 
And God shall send the Comforter 

To sanctify thy grief ! 

Sister and brother, who bewail 

A form the grave hath hid. 
Whose tears have fallen thick and fast 

Upon her coffin lid, — 
Dwell not upon the darksome tomb 

Which doth her limbs imprison, 
For lo ! from thence a voice declares, 

" She is not here^ but risen ! " 

Thou, in the heaven of whose heart 

The brightest star has set, 
O, turn not to the memories 

Of the past, with fond regret ! 
But let them linger round thee, 

To cheer life's twilight hours, 
Like strains of far-off music. 

Or the breath of summer flowers I 

A mission unto her was given, 

The good and pure in heart. 
Lessons of faith and gentleness. 

And patience, to impart. 
There 's sorrow in the home on earth, 

Joy in the home above ; 
That gentle spirit hath fulfilled 

Her ministry of love ! 



150 ^ POETRY. 

WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD! 
O, WEEP not for the dead ! 
Why should our spirits fondly cling to dust, 
Why sorrow vainly o'er the lowly bed 
Where rest the ashes of the pure and just ? 

Why mourn we for the young, 
The loved and beautiful, the gentle-hearted ? 
Why should their dirge in mournful tones be sung 
Who in the spring-time of their lives departed ? 

Not for the quiet dead, 
Whose weary pilgrimage hath found a close, 
Whose toils are over, let a tear be shed, 
Or yearning prayer be uttered — not for those ! 

Weep for the guilty soul 
That still travaileth in the pangs of sin ! 
Within whose depths the troubled waters roll, 
And not a gleam of sunshine breaketh in ! 

Weep for the stricken one 
Who in the midnight of affliction gropes, 
And, unillumined by the risen Sun, 
Sits mid the ashes of her dearest hopes ! 

O, weep for those who live — 
Far worse than death ! — in base, tormenting fear ! 
Who never knew the blessed word, '"'■forgive^'* 
And wait in terror for the judgment near ! 

For these let prayer be made, 
And intercession at the throne of God, 
Through Him on whom were our transgressions laid, 
Who saves a world by his redeeming blood ! 



POETRY. 151 

For these let tears be shed ! 
Let them descend, like gentle summer showers, 
And like the dew upon the violet's bed, 
Revivify the heart's decaying flowers ! 



SONG. 

O, HASTE with me to the green, green fields, 

Where we loved in youth to stray, 
For my heart leaps up, with a joyous thrill, 

Like a frolicsome child at play ! 
And I dream of a cottage, embowered in trees, 

'Neath the weight of their foliage bending. 
And flowers, and birds, and all beautiful things, 

In Nature's sweet harmony blending. 

Come, haste thee, then, to our fairy bower. 

Far down in the woody dell, 
Where all is still, save the drowsy hum 

Of the bee in the foxglove bell. 
I '11 sit me down at thy feet, beloved, 

'Neath the shadow of some old tree. 
And sing thee a lay of the olden times. 

Of knighthood and chivalry. 

We '11 weave full many a bright romance 

Of a life in some sweet, lone spot. 
With music, and flowers, and love alone — 

The world and its cares forgot. 
O, fair are the dreams of the youthful heart. 

And bright are its summer hours ; 
Bat haste thee, love ! — 'tis the " witching time," 

The season of Love and Flowers. 



152 POETRY. 

SONNETS. 
I. 

" Give me more light." — Goethe. 

Father in heaven ! my yearning spirit cries 
To Thee, amid her dark and starless night, 
And vainly struggles to behold the light ; 
O, gently touch her sin-beclouded eyes. 
And bid her look, undazzled, to the skies ! 

Light for my darkened soul ! O Thou from whom 
All light, all wisdom, and all life, must come, — 
To Thee alone her heart's deep prayer may rise. 

I have had glimpses of a nobler life. 
Like gleams of sunshine through the tempest breaking, 
The spirit-lyre to loftier themes awaking, — 

Dreams of a world with glorious beauty rife. 
Where, equal with the angels, man, the clod, 
Shall, purified by Love, stand face to face with God ! 

II. 

" He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good." 

Joy to the earth ! the glorious sun hath risen ! 

All nature now the genial influence feels ; 

Into the nun's low cell the sunbeam steals, 
And through the grated window of the prison, [glisten. 
Making the tear-dimmed eye with grateful pleasure 

Its cheerful glow illumes alike the haunt 

Of Vice, and her companions. Care and Want, 
And the low cot, where peasant children listen, 

While reverend lips the law of love proclaim ! 
Where wretched Judas doth his Lord betray. 
Where loving hearts in truth and meekness pray, 

Whate'er the spirit's motive or its aim. 
Alike doth God, our heavenly Father, shed 
His glorious sunshine upon every head ! 



POETRY. 153 

III. 

■'And sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust." 

He bids the soft and gently-falling showers 

Upon the parched and drooping earth descend ; 
In dewy vales upspring the fair, sweet flowers, 

And to the balmy air their fragrance lend. 
The rain falls kindly on the deeply sinning, 

The wretched wanderer from virtue's way, 
And on his brow whose daily life is winning 

Souls by the Gospel's pure and gentle sway. 
While man, frail creature of a brief hour, turneth 

From his own sins, a neighbor's faults to scan. 
And from his path an erring brother spurneth, 

Bidding him perish 'neath the cold world's ban, — 
Alike to all God's boundless mercy floweth, 
'And every path of life with blessings streweth ! 

IV. 
THE CRUCIFIXION. 

A wlAiiL of woe is heard from Calvary's mountain, 

A mournful cry resounds along the plain ! 
Forth pours the stream from Love's redeeming fountain, 

The Son of God, the anointed one, is slain ! 
And lo ! the air is rent with peals of thunder. 

And midnight darkness on the city lies ; 
The mountains shake, the rocks are torn asunder, 

The graves are opened, and the dead arise ! 
Priest, Judge, and Levite, see the awful vision, 

And to the ground fall prostrate with affright ; 
Rejoice, oh man ! thy sins have found remission, 

And " immortality is brought to light ! " 
Christ hath fulfilled his Heaven-appointed mission, 

And Love's bright banner streams from Calvary's 
height ! -. o 



154 POETRY. 

V. 

THE STARS. 

" Those golden tears that men call stars." — Hyperion. 

Beautiful thought ! that the stars o'erhead, 

Which beam so soft on our mortal ken, 
Are but the tears which the angels shed 

O'er the transgressions of sinful men ! 
Though changeless ye seem to our feeble sight, 

With steady brilliancy shining on, 
Do ye not beam with a holier light 

To hail the return of the erring one ? 
Golden drops from Compassion's fount, 

Lit by the fire on Mercy's shrine, 
When the hosts of the ransomed upward mount, 

To bask in the glories of Love divine. 
Shall ye not blaze like undying suns, 
In the golden crowns of the shining ones ? 

VL 
MARY, MOTHER OF CHRIST. 

Mother of Christ ! what dream of fame 

Could paint a lot so high as thine ? 
How meanly younds earth's proudest name 

Beside a title so divine ! 
In every nation, age, and clime. 

Where his religion has been taught, 
Thy name has been with thoughts sublime, 

With holy love and sweetness fraught ! 
O who was honored e'er like thee ? 

What heart was e'er so sorely tried ? 
Raised from thy lowly lot, to be 

The mother of the Crucified ! 
Hail, highly favored ! who upon thy breast 
Didst lull the infant Son of God to rest ! 



POETRY. 



155 



vn. 

"Our Fatherl who art in heaven." 

Father in Heaven ! how many hearts are breathing 

That hallowed name, with reverent lips, to-night, 
On Southern plains, where graceful vines are wreathing, 

Or on some lofty, snow-clad Alpine height ! 
The lonely dweller on the rugged mountain, 

The mariner upon the trackless sea, 
The peasant maiden by the wildwood fountain, 

And childhood lisping at its mother's knee ; 
All breathe, alike, the beautiful petition, 

To Thee, " Our Father who in Heaven art ;" 
And Thou dost own, most blessed recognition ! 

The tie between Thee and each human heart ! 
Thy children ! may we ever strive to be 
Worthy, Our Father ! of that name and Thee ! 

vni. 

" Thy kingdom come ! " 

Where shall Thy kingdom come ? In halls of state. 

Or old cathedrals, where the mighty throng, 
Where mitred priests in robes of purple wait. 

And pealing organs chant the lofty song ? 
Where shall Thy kingdom come ? In cloisters dim, 

Where the pale nun in adoration bends. 
While with the music of her vesper hymn 

Some fond regret or cherished memory blends ? 
Or in the dwelling of the lowly poor, 

Where humble hopes and meek affections spring? 
There shall the dove of peace, her wanderings o'er, 

At length find shelter for her weary wing ? — 
Where shall Thy kingdom come ? Is not Thy throne 
Within the humble, contrite soul alone ? 



156 POETRY. 

IX. 

" Give us this day our daily bread." 

0, God oor Father ! from thy throne on high. 

Amid the melody of harps divine^ 
Wilt Thou not listen to thy children's cry, 

Borne on prayer-incense to thy holy shrine ? 
Father, we hunger ! As we faltering tread 

The rugged pathway through life's wilderness, 
O "give unto us each our daily bread," 

Strengthen our footsteps as we onward press.! 
Thou who of old thy mercy didst declare 

To Israel, wandering in the desert land, 
Turn not away from this, our fervent prayer. 

Nor let our frailties stay Thy gracious hand ! 
Thou who with blessings makest each day rife, 
Oive to our fainting souls the bread of Life ! 

X. 

" Lead us not into temptation." 

From the low hut, where Poverty contendeth 

Bravely with Vice, the sumptuously fed, 
While from his heart an anguish-wail ascendeth, 

As weak young voices vainly cry for bread ! — 
From the proud soul that burneth for dominion 

Over the mighty universe of Mind, 
That fain would soar away on eagle-pinion, 

Leaving life's tame realities behind; — 
And from the beauty-dowered, in humble station. 

Who for the world's gay pageants fondly sighs, — 
From Hagar, maddened by her desolation, — 

From every poor, frail heart this prayer should rise 
" Suffer us not to fall into temptation ! " 

Lead us, oh Father ! where our duty lies ! 



POETRY. 



167 



XI. 
u pof Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever. Amen ! " 

Thine is the kingdom ! Everlasting God ! 

In all Thy works Thy sovereignty is shown ; 
Justice and Mercy wait upon Thy nod, 

And Truth upholds the pillars of Thy throne. 
Thine is the power — to tame the rebel heart, 

To make the serpent gentle as the dove ; 
Comfort and peace and wisdom to impart, 

And to do all things, by Thy wondrous Love ' 
Thine is the glory — not of earthly kings, 

Not Thine their empty pomp and poor renown, 
But with Thy goodness the empyrean rings ; 

I^rve is Thy sceptre, — Love, Thy glorious crown. 
Wliile earthly thrones return to dust again. 
Thine shall endure forevermore : Amen ! 

XII. 
CASSIE. 

O, WHO that ever visited Moss-dell, 

Remembers not the golden-haired young lassie 
Who mid its solitude was wont to dwell. 

The beautiful and gentle-hearted Cassie ? 
Her life was one of deep and quiet joy. 

Calm-flowing onward like a placid river, 
Till at her breast the mischief-loving boy, 

Young Cupid, aimed an arrow from his quiver. 
The maiden loved, and trusted — was betrayed — 

No murmuring word by her pale lips was spoken ; 
But when the flowers of Spring began to fade. 

She passed away — her guileless heart was broken! 
Rest thee, at length, poor, bleeding, stricken dove ! 
For He shall shield thee with protecting love. 
13^ 



158 POETRY. 

XIII. 
THE BRIDE. 

She stands before the altar, bright with blushes, 

Trembling with fear, of keenest pleasure bom ; 
But, ah ! how tenderly the lover hushes 

The agitation of the timid fawn ! 
Her radiant eyes, through jetty fringes beaming, 

Rival the midnight blackness of her hair, 
In which a few soft, orient pearls are gleaming. 

As if to show the brow and neck more fair. 
But listen now ! the willing hand is given, 

The vow is said, the solemn rites are done ; 
The tie that only may by death be riven 

Is consecrated — and the twain are one ! 
God bless thee, beautiful and happy bride. 
And lead thee safely in the path untried ! 

XIV. 
THE BURIAL. 

Through the" church-yard a solemn train is sweeping, . 

Clad in the sable draperies of grief; 
Their forms are bowedy their eyes are red with weeping. 

For one whose term of life was all too brief ! 
In vain they strive their mournful sobs to smother, 

"Whene'er they think of her, the young and gay — 
One year a wife, one little week a mother — 

So early called from all she loved away ! 
Then comes that "withering sound" to all who love her, 

The clods are falling on the coffin-lid ! 
And now they heap the flowery sods above her, 

And the beloved one is forever hid ! 
Mourner ! behold the rainbow in the skies — 
She whom thou lovest shall again arise ! 



POETRY. 159 

XV, 
GOD'S ALTAR. 

Not where the organ-tones are loudly pealing 

Through the cathedral aisles or arches dim ; 
Nor when upon the ear is softly stealing 

The low, sweet cadence of the evening hymn ; 
Not where the sound of pompous prayer ascendeth. 

A hundred voices echo it again ; 
Not where the knee in solemn mockery bendeth, 

And careless lips pronounce a loud amen ! 
Not where the sacramental cup, o'erflowing, 

Presents a symbol of the Saviour's blood, 
But in the heart with pure affection glowing, 

Is the true altar of the living God ! 
There hath he reared his own most holy shrine, 
And consecrated it with Love Divine ! 

XVI. 
CLARA. 

O, SHE is wondrous beautiful and bright, 

With her long raven hair and violet eyes ; 
But on her name there is a withering blight, 

And a dark shadow on her pathway lies. 
She once was happy, till the demon, si7i, 

Made her heart's paradise a living hell. 
To which nought pure or good might enter in — 

The tempter triumphed, and the bright one fell ! 
Yet woman — sister ! turn thou not away ! 

Art thou more pure than was God's holy Son, 
Who, when on earth, was not ashamed to say 

'■'•Thmi art forgwen^^ to the fallen one. 
O, take her by the hand, and, as of yore 
The Master did, say, " Go, and sin no more I " 



160 POETRY. 

XVII. 
SUGGESTED BY A TEMPERANCE DISCOURSE. 

A VOICE hath sounded from God's holy mountain, 

And found an echo in the human heart ; 
" Ho ! ye that thirst, come to the living fountain, 

Whose crystal stream can peace and joy impart ! " 
Many have heard, and spurned the bitter waters. 

Whose poisoned springs engender hate and strife ; 
Lift up your hearts, earth's bowed and stricken daugh- 
ters, — 

Sing, for the curse is taken from your life ! 
Arise, ye fallen, from your degradation. 

Ye who are versed in sin's dark, mournful lore ; 
Lo ! angels chant the song of your salvation, 

And Jesus whispers, " Go, and sin no more ! " 
List to the mighty voice that cryeth ever, 
" Come to the gushing fount that faileth never ! " 

XVIII. 
A VISION. 

There is a vision floating round me now. 

Which long hath haunted me at twilight hour, 
Like some old picture, with a strange, sweet power. 

Awaking loftier thoughts and hopes, I trow : 

A vision of a girl, with saint-like brow, 
All radiant, like snow-flakes newly drifted. 
And large, blue, gold-fringed eyes to heaven uplifted. 

That might have made a spirit earthward bow. 
For from their star-lit depths beamed out a soul 

Made glorious with the light of Truth and Love ; 

A spirit yearning for its home above ; 

And there her holy hopes have found a goal. 

A little while this fair, green earth she trod, 

A type of angels, and akin to God ! 



POETRY. 161 

XIX. 

MARY. 

A FAIRY girl used every morn to mieet me, 

When the first ray of sunlight tinged the skies, 
And in a gentle, loving accent greet me, 

With her pure soul out-beaming from her eyes. 
Long ere I reached her, I could see her coming. 

With bird-like motion, through the dewy grass, 
Some merry air or plaintive ballad humming. 

While the spring daisies bent to let her pass. 
Oft have I thought, while through the flowers straying 

That she was only than themselves less fair ; 
And well I loved to see the breezes playing 

With the rich tresses of her golden hair. 
And watch the expression of her sweet face vary ; 
She was a bonnie child, — her name was Mary ! 



"PRAY WITHOUT CEASING." 

God of the first gray dawn ! 

To thee my vows I raise, 
And on the wings of mom 

Send up my song of praise. 
I bless thee for the sleep 

That soothed my weary frame ; 
The vigil thou didst keep, 

The visions bright that came. 

God of the sun's first ray ! 

O, let its influence be 
A magnet, day by day, 

To draw me unto thee ! 



162 POETRY. 

I bless thee for that light, 
The sun that fills the soul, 

Whose beams divinely bright 
Can purify the whole. 

God of the glowing noon ! 

My prayer shall still ascend, 
And crave a heavenly boon 

Of thee, my kindest Friend. 
I seek that better part, 

To animate this clod ; 
I would be pure in heart. 

That I may see my God ! 

God of the morning light. 
And of the evening's close. 

Thy love no shade or blight 
Or diminution knows ; 

O Father ! when at length 
My earthly ties shall sever. 

Be thou my staff of strength, 
, Thine arms my home forever ! 



RECORDS OF THE OLD YEAR 

MAIDEN. 

Another year of life is gone ; 
How swiftly have its hours flown ! 
Then let me now, reflective, cast 
A lingering look upon the past. 
And what hast thou, Old Year, to tell ? 
Do pleasant tales thy records swell — 
Have scenes of pleasure met thy sight. 
And mirthful hours mocked thy flight — 



POETRY. 163 

Or sadder visions dost thou bring, 

To close thy reign, old frost-bound king ? 

OLD TEAR. 

" Alas ! fair querist, thou art smiling now, 
And there is not a cloud on thy young brow : 
But when I began my short-lived race, 
There was many a form of airy grace, 
And many an eye as bright as thine. 
That now has ceased on earth to shine ; 
And many a cheek with as bright a bloom, 
That now lies withering in the tomb ! 

" I 've seen the maiden, with swelling heart. 
From her childhood's home and its joys depart ; 
From the tender mother, whose loving arm 
Shielded her darling from every harm ; 
From the father, whose watchful care had been 
A talisman to preserve from sin ; 
The brothers and sisters who with her played. 
And the home of her youth so joyous made ; 
She leaves them all, for a stranger's side, — 
Resigns such love, for a love untried ! 

" I 've seen the bride at the altar stand. 

And plight the heart with the willing hand, 

And, in the freshness and bloom of youth, 

Intrust her all to Ms love and truth ; 

I 've seen the young mother, with glistening eyes 

Bend o'er the infant, that slumbering lies, 

Enfolded in arms that long to press 

It closer still, in a fond caress ; 

Yet scarcely daring to breathe or stir, 

Lest it should waken the slumberer ! 



164 POETRY. 

" And 1 have looked on the merry dance, 
Where red lips smile, and bright eyes glance ; 
Where the sylph-like footsteps you scarcely hear, 
And the laugh of the jocund meets the ear ; 
But think not my course has been all so bright. 
For scenes of sorrow have marked my flight ; — 

" And she on whose bridal my birth-day shone 

To the silent grave, in her youth, has gone ; 

She bowed to the stern decree of fate, — 

Her husband's hearth is desolate ! 

I 've seen the mother compelled to part 

With the cherished idol of her heart ; 

I 've seen the strong and the proud laid low, 

And happy dwellings filled with woe ! 

" To-night, there 's many a circle met, 

My passing away to celebrate ; 

But, oh ! in their mirth, let them not forget 

That on some fair ferows death's seal may be set ! 

And that many a voice, which last year gave 

Its gladsome greetings, is stilled in the grave ! 

" My tale is ended — my work is done ; 

My mission accomplished — my race is run ;" — 

And as the Old Year closed his tale. 

His last rustling sigh was borne on the gale. 

And from many a group pealed the joyous din, 

" The Old Year 's out, and the New Year 's in ! " 



"I KNOW THAT MY REDEEMER LIYETH." 
"I KNOW that my Redeemer lives!" and when this 

weary frame 
Shall quietly return to earth, from whose embrace it 

came, 



POETRY. 165 

O, then, with spirit purified, and by his own free grace, 
I hope to look undazzled on my Saviour, face to face ! 

' " I know that my Redeemer lives ! " and oh, Ilong to lie 
In the bright sunshine of his smile, the heaven of his 

eye, 
And to drink of that pure fountain whose living waters 

burst 
From out God's throne, to slake with immortality my 

thirst. 

" I know that my Redeemer lives ! " I have a holy trust 

That he will raise and renovate my feeble, mouldering 
dust ; 

Why should I care, though worms destroy this shroud- 
like form of mine, 

"While my soul in robes celestial before her God may 
shine ! 



TO A FRIEND, 

ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND. 

He has vanished from among us ! and oh, why should 

we mourn, 
When earth's frail ties however fond, are thus asunder 

torn ? 
Why should we seek to hold him here, from mansions 

of the blest, 
" Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 

are at rest " ? 

And yet it is a grievous thing, when cherished friends 

are torn 
From our embrace, by death's cold grasp, and hurried to 

" that bourn 
14 



166 POETRY. 

From whence no traveller yet returned," to paint the 

glorious rest 
Of those who labored here for Christ, and now with him 

are blest ! 

He has left his earthly dwelling, and thine eyes are 

veiled in tears 
For him in whom were garnered up the hopes of many 

years ; 
The husband of thine early love, — the kindest and the 

best, — 
He. has passed through many a weary scene, and now 

has gone to rest. 

A brighter, happier home is his ; and yet, we wept for 

him, 
When the golden bowl was broken, and the lamp of lifG 

grew dim ; 
But richest comforts soothed our hearts when to his side 

we crept. 
And let the tears of friendship flow — we know that 

" Jesus wept ! " 

And mourn not for the fatherless ! — thou hast no cause 

for fear, — 
The widow's and the orphan's God will be thy helper 

here ; 
And when thy race at length is run, with him may'st 

thou be blest, 
" Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 

are at rest." 



POETRY. 167 

THE GOOD OLD MAN. 

[The following stanzas were suggested by Russell's beautiful aAd popular 
alladof "The Old Wife."] 

Though time, alas ! has changed thy locks, from glossy 

brown to gray. 
And thy proud and manly form is bent, with age and 

slow decay, — 
Yet true and tender is thy heart as when we first began 
To tread life's path together, my faithful, good old man ! 

A bright and joyous day was that, when, in the bloom of 

youth. 
With love and hope unchecked and free, I plighted thee 

my truth ; 
Thine have I been for many a year, yet never, in that 

span, 
Has murmuring word escaped thy lips, my dear, my 

good old man ! 

And happy is the life we 've led, though like an April 

day ! . 

Where clouds and sunshine, smiles and tears, have held 

alternate sway ; 
But sunny hours have triumphed still, and grief been 

under ban, 
For tears were never welcome guests, with thee, my 

good old man ! 

And through the ever-changing scenes that chequer 

human life, 
Most blessed have I deemed my lot, since I became thy 

wife; 
What need of words? — thou knowest well the love lang 

syne began ; 
And dearer than the bridegroom was, art thou, my good 

old man ! 



16B POETRY. 



"I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY." 

" I WOULD not live alway ! " this earth has no charms 
To keep me, my Saviour, away from thine arms ; 
My spirit is weary, and yearns for the rest 
That waits the freed soul in the land of the blest. 

Grant, Father Divine ! that this frame may decay, 
When the flowers of Summer are fading away; 
The leaves, as they fall, my fit monument be, 
And autumn winds sigh forth a requiem for me ! 

Let me die in the gladness and spring-time of youth, 
While life bears the semblance of beauty and truth ; 
Ere friends prove false-hearted, or pleasures decay. 
From sin and from suffering take me away ! 

" I would not live alway ! " — I joy in the trust, 
That when this frail form shall return to the dust, 
My spirit shall rise on the wings of thy love. 
To seek its true home in the mansions above ! 



THE OLD CHURCH-BELL. 

From my childhood up, I have loved full well 
To list to the chimes of that old church-bell ; 
And they come to my ear most richly fraught 
With treasures from Memory's store-house brought. 
They speak to my heart, with a solemn tone. 
Of the loved and lost, who have left me lone ; 
And spirit-voices come floating by. 
And forms that are veiled from the mortal eye. 



POETRY. 169 

When burthened with grief, and oppressed with care, 

It summoned my steps to the house of prayer, 

Where the balm of Gilead was softly shed, 

And the soul was with heavenly maiina fed. 

In the season of health, I have loved its sound; 

And when to the couch of sickness bound, 

I have lain for hours, amused right well 

In counting the strokes of that old church-bell. 

I remember well how its gladsome chime 
Pealed merrily out at Christmas time ; 
And how, when that joyous season came, 
We sat at the feet of the dear grandame. 
And heard the tale of the Saviour's birth, 
Who brought good tidings of joy to earth; 
And much we^ w:ondered to hear her say 
That the Prince of Peace in a manger lay ! 

Since then, I have wandered in distant climes, 

Where my ear was greeted with loftier chimes, 

That proudly swelled through each pillared dome, 

Lilie a peal to welcome a monarch home. 

I have heard the sound of the Alpine horn. 

At the sunset hour and the early dawn ; 

But tuneless and sad the echoes fell. 

When I thought of home, and our old church-bell. 

I have dwelt in the fairest lands of earth, 
In the peasant's cot, at the noble's hearth ; 
I have sat entranced, and listened mute, 
To the strains of Italian voice and lute ; 
I have knelt at the vesper hour of prayer. 
When the ave of thousands filled the air ; 
But my heart was away in our woody dell. 
And I yearned for the sound of the old church-bell. 
14^ 



170 POETRY. 

O, when our childhood has passed away, 
And the bright romance of our youthful day 
Has been shaded by sorrow, and chilled by care, 
And our fairest dreams have proved empty air, — • 
When all have vanished, — how fondly we sigh 
For some sight or sound of the days gone by ! 
Ah ! they who have felt this will know the spell 
That 'lies in the sound of the old church-bell ! 

I 'm an old man now, and, my wanderings done, 
I can sit in peace by my own hearth-stone. 
And list to the chimes that are still as dear 
As when first they fell on my youthful ear. 
Right gayly they pealed for my bridal mom ; 
They tolled when the forms that I loved were borne 
To the silent grave ; and I pray that my knell 
May be sounded, at length, by that old church-bell ! 



"COMFORT YE MY PEOPLE." 

Breathe comfort and peace in my people's ear; 
Let the far off nations awake, and hear ! 
Bid the humbled soul from the dust arise, 
And tears be dried from all weeping eyes ! 

Say to the weary, with grief opprest, 
Cast all thy cares on the Saviour's breast ; 
And come to the waters that freely flow, 
To allay thy thirst, and assuage thy woe ! 

Say to the sinful and erring, come ! 

There are mansions for you in your Father's home ; 

And great shall the joy of the angels be. 

O'er a contrite soul, from its bonds set free. 



POETRY. 171 

And oh ! to the meek and the pure in heart 
The glorious tidings of joy impart ; 
And bid them look through the storms of time, 
To a haven of peace, in yon blessed clime ! 

There 's a home for all, on that heavenly shore ; 
There sickness and pain shall assail no more ; 
Death has no passport to that bright land, 
And grief is unknown to the seraph band. 

There, the River of Life doth unceasing flow, 
And deathless flowers on its borders grow ; 
The sapphire floors are by angels trod. 
And its light and sun is the smile of God ! 

The loved and lost, who have gone before, 
Shall greet you there on the spirit-shore, 
Ransomed from sin by redeeming grace, 
God's own free gift to a fallen race I 

There, dissension and discord are never heard, 
And the wrath of God is an unknown word ; 
But Heaven's broad arches with triumph ring, 
When myriad tongues of salvation sing. 

There, doubts and fears shall no more molest, 
Hope shall be lost in fruition blest. 
And radiant Faith shall resume her stand, 
With Justice and Mercy, at God's right hand. 

And over all, in that bright domain, 
Shall one fair spirit triumphant reign ; 
All — all shall bow at the glorious shrine 
Of Love universal, — Love divine ! 



172 POETRY. 

THE VILLAGE GRAVE-YARD. 

Do you see yon spire, with its glittering vane, 
Through the trees that almost hide it, — 

And the simple, snow-white village fane, 
With the green church-yard beside it ? 

'T is a spot where oft, at daylight's close, 

I love by myself to wander. 
And on the varied fates of those 

Who are sleeping beneath to ponder ! 

I take my seat where the grass hath grown 
O'er the grave of some friend departed, 

And think of those who have left me lone, 
The young, the gay and light-hearted. 

In this still retreat I can never weep, 
Nor give way to one pang of sorrow. 

For those who have sunk to their earthly sleep, 
And awoke to a heavenly morrow. 

'Neath the mound at my feet a fair child lies, — - 
Our prayers were in vain to save it ; 

The spirit plumed its wing for the skies. 
And returned to the God who gave it. 

Here, peacefully slumbers a gentle girl, 

A creature of joy and gladness, 
With a laughing eye and floating curl, 

And a brow untouched by sadness. 

She passed away while the summer flowers 
With fragrance the air were lading ; 

Ah ! who that looked on that Flower of ours, 
Could have fancied the Rose was fading ! 



POETRY. 173 

We laid her there, in that quiet spot, 
And planted bright flowers above her ; 

O, was not hers a happy lot, 

For, *' none knew her but to love her ? " 

And here is the grave of an aged man, 
Who was famed in his country's story ; 

His years fourscore and ten outran. 
And his name is his children's glory. 

Here the old and the young lie side by side, 

And the turf gay hearts doth cover ; 
The grave hath sundered the bridegroom and bride, 

The blooming maid and her lover. 

'T is a holy place, and I love to stray 

Where the quiet dead are dwelling ; 
For Jesus hath passed through the dreary way, 

Its darkness and gloom dispelling ! 

And blest be our heavenly Father's name. 

Whose promise to all is given. 
That though " dust return to dust " whence it came. 

The spirit shall live in heaven !' 



A SONG FOR THE PAST. 

A SONG for the past ! when our hearts were young, 

And the world looked bright and fair ; 
When we bounded along, with jocund song, 

And knew not the weight of care. 
Then our hearts were light, and our eyes were bright, 

And merrily passed each day, 
With the sportive glance and the joyous dance, 

And the merry roundelay. 



174 POETRY. 

A song for the past ! for the good old days 

When our spirits were blithe and free ; 
When the birds sang gay, in the early May, 

And we revelled in childhood's glee. 
Then the mad-cap race, and the butterfly chase, 

Gave our cheeks a ruddy glow ; 
And exercise gave light to the eyes, 

And throned fair health on the brow. 

A song for the past ! for the golden days 

Whose memories make us yearn 
To behold again, though we know it vain, 

The scenes which can ne'er return. 
Farewell to my theme ! like a morning dream, 

The past has vanished away ; 
But the present lies bright before our sight, — 

Enjoy it, then, while we may ! 



"WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER." 
We have been friends together, in happy days lang 

syne ; 
My heart has felt thy sorrows, and thou hast shared in 

mine ; 
But now, alas ! that holy light has vanished from thy 

brow, — 
We have been friends together, — why are we parted 

now? 

We have walked and sat together 'neath the solemn 

forest shades, 
We have laughed and sang together in the green and 

sunny glades ; 



POETRY. 175 

And are they all forgotten now, those blithe and glad- 
some days ? 

And shall those ancient woods no more reecho to our 
lays ? 

Through the gay resorts of pleasure have our merry 

footsteps roved ; 
We have wept sad tears together, by the graves of those 

we loved ; 
And though the silver cord is loosed, let Memory whis- ' 

per thee, 
" We have been friends together, if never more we be." 

We have been friends together; and oh, 'tis hard to part 

The tendrils that have twined so close around my in- 
most heart ! 

Nor mine alone, — for still, despite the coldness of thine 
eye, 

1 'm sure thou canst not quite forget the sunny hours 
gone by. 

And when thy thoughts turn wearily to muse upon the 

past. 
And thy mind reverts to former days, too beautiful to 

last. 
Then let Faith's angel-finger point thy glistening eyes 

above, 
Where broken friendships are unknown, for all is perfect 

Love ! 



MEMORIES. 
Old friend, dost thou remember the sunny days of 

yore. 
When Nature ever to our eyes a face of beauty wore ? 



176 POETRY. 

When meadows green, or snow-clad hills, alike ova 

hearts could warm ? 
For we were blithe and gay alike in sunshine or in 

storm. 

And do you not remember the humble village school, 
And the kind old dame who governed it, with mild and 

gentle rule ? 
And how we used to loiter and con our lessons o'er. 
Beneath the spreading branches of that ancient syc- 
amore ? 

Do you remember, playmate, how the self-same path we 

trod. 
As each successive Sabbath came, unto the house of 

God? 
Through that green lane where stately elms upreared 

on either side. 
And spread their massive arms above the brooklet's 

mirror-tide, — 

The merry brook, that singing went, through all the 

long, bright hours, 
Whose banks, in spring and summer-time, were broidered 

thick with flowers ; 
O, dear its simple music was, to my untutored ear, 
And bright as dreams of fairy-land did every scene appear! 

Do you remember the old church, with ivy over-run. 
And the snug old-fashioned parsonage, that seemed the 

gaze to shun ? 
For its front was almost hidden from the careless passer's 

view, 
By the clambering vines that over it in rich profusion 

grew. 



POETRY. 177 

Do you remember, too, the day when that young 

preacher came, 
The tidings of a full and free salvation to proclaim ? 
And oh, how eagerly we hung upon his every word, 
And felt that he indeed possessed the spirit of the Lord ! 

Do you remember how we wept, the day the pastor died ? 
And how we sought his lowly grave, and planted flowers 

beside 
The humble mound, and watered them with many a 

shower of tears. 
And how carefully and tenderly we nurtured them for 

years ? 

Do you remember the old church-yard, where so many 

dear ones lie ? 
It used to be our favorite haunt, in pleasant days gone 

by; 

And oft I 've prayed, that when at length life's cares are 

all forgot, 
You and I may rest together, love, within that quiet 

spot ! 



THE WOOD-PATH. 

Away in the depths of a shady wood, 
Where the ring-dove nurses her tender brood. 
Where the red-breast trilleth his evening hymn. 
And lovers walk in the twilight dim. 
Is a grassy bank, with a terrace crowned, 
Where the pale, soft blossoms of Spring abound, 
And the moss looks ever as bright and green 
As the emerald throne of a fairy-queen. 
15 



] 78 POETRY. 

There the gentle dews and the April showers 
Whisper of love to the nodding flowers, 
And a song of gratitude riseth up 
From the purple bell and the golden cup. 
Like jewels they shine mid the wavy grass, 
And greet us with perfume whene'er we pass ; 
And through the long summer the bees will come, 
And fill the air with their drowsy hum. 

And where a sycamore's branches fling 
Their pleasant shadow, a silvery spring 
Comes bubbling forth from its very foot. 
Half-choked in its passage by many a root ; 
These forming a knotted and tangled net, 
O'er which like a fountain the waters jet. 
And ripple along, with a pleasant sound. 
Over the sandy and pebbled ground. 

How pleasant it was, in my childhood's day. 
Through that green wood-path alone to stray. 
And idly lie through the dreamy hours. 
Lulled by the 'wildering perfume of flowers ! 
How oft I 've leaned o'er the fountain's brink, 
With my hand for a cup, of its wave to drink, — 
Or thrown myself by its grassy side. 
To bathe my brow in its crystal tide ! 

O, many a season has come and past 
Since through those woodlands I wandered last ; 
And many a mountain, and vale, and glen. 
Have revealed themselves to my eager ken. 
I have listened with awe to the ocean's roar. 
When its foaming billows have lashed the shore ; 
But nothing can charm me, where'er I roam. 
Like the scenes that smile round my early home. 



POETRY. 179 

Though bowed with the burdens of near fourscore, 

My heart is as young as in days of yore ; 

And every beautiful thing I see 

In earth or in heaven delighteth me. 

The simplest flower that grows at my feet 

Is full of instruction divinely sweet, 

And the stars that jewel the azure sky 

Are types of my spirit's high destiny. 



"LIFE IS LIKE AN APRIL DAY." 

Life is like an April day, 

Changing ever ; 
Friendships blossom and decay, 

Fond hearts sever ! 

Sorrow, clad in robes of gray, 

Mocketh gladness ; 
Sunbeams come to chase away 

Clouds of sadness ! 

v 

The smile is followed by the tear, 

Sunshine by showers ; 
The bridal couch becomes a bier, 

Love fades like flowers ! 

Genius weaves its thrilling lay. 

Music gushes ; 
Grief will blight the wreath of bay, 

Sorrow crushes ! 

With dewy flowers her locks of gold 

Beauty braideth ; 
But, ah ! she loves not to be toldj 

Beauty fadeth ! 



180 POETRY. 



Ay ! life 's like an April day, 

Yet we cherish 
Hopes — that like the buds of May 

Bloom and perish ! 



ELOQUENCE. 

It welleth up from brimming founts, 

Deep hidden in the soul ; 
And with a strong, resistless power, 

Its chainless waters roll ! 

It gushes out in words of fire. 

It scorches with its breath ; 
And as the heart is pure or dark, 

Its words are life or death ! 

It peals in thunders, loud and deep, 
That make the mountains quake ; 

The mighty despot on his throne 
Doth feel its pillars shake ! 

In justice's great and outraged name, 
That giant voice doth crave 

Redress for earth's down-trodden ones, 
And freedom for the slave ! 

And it has softer, gentler tones. 
To soothe the broken heart — 

To bind its tender, bleeding wounds, 
And hope and peace impart. 

Its crystal waters ripple through 
Life's parched and burning sands ; 

And with their cool, refreshing streams. 
Make green the desert lands. 



POETRY. 181 

As hidden fountains are revealed, 

Touched by the hazel-rod, 
So the heart's mightier depths, unsealed, 

Wake at the touch of God ! 



"xVO MORE." 

" O, how majestically mournful are those words ! They sound like the 
roar of the wind through a forest of pines." Hyperion. 

The mighty Past, with all its bright revealings. 
Its lofty impulses and thoughts that burn, 

With all its treasured hopes and earnest feelings, 
Shall to the waking, watchful soul, return 

NO MORE ! 

O, magic words ! what power within ye lieth. 
To thrill each chord of this consummate lyre, 

The human heart — whose music never dieth, 
Though the arch-finger wake its sleeping fire 

NO MORE ! 

When gayly revelling in Joy's dominions, 
A tone of warning evermore we hear ; 

Like the dim rustling of a spirit's pinions, 
A gentle voice sighs softly in our ear — 

" NO MORE ! " 

The glorious visions that so long have haunted 
The musing spirit at the twilight hour. 

Until for immortality it panted. 

Shall stir its depths, with strange, mysterious power, 

NO MORE ! 

15# 



182 POETRY. 

Yet, weary soul ! let not thy faith be shaken j 
Gaze up and onward to the blissful clime, 

Where all thy powers shall to new life awaken, 
And feel the chilling blight of earth and time 

NO MORE ! 



CHILDHOOD. 

The merry voice of childhood ! 

How it falls upon the ear. 
Like the soft and silvery cadence 

Of a fountain gushing near ! 
Whether it lisp the evening prayer, 

Or half-formed words of love, 
Which fall like dew-drops on her heart 

Who bends its couch above ! 

The joyous laugh of childhood ! 

It has a magic spell, 
Which every truthful human soul 

Can understand full well. 
It ringeth through the forest-aisles. 

And through the greenwood dim. 
And thrilleth every spirit 

Like a sanctuary hymn ! 

The lightsome step of childhood ! 

Gayly dancing on the sward, 
Or keeping lively measure 

To the shouts that ring abroad ; 
Those little steps may vagrant be, 

But wheresoe'er they roam. 
In every true and loving heart 

Sweet childhood finds a home ! 



, POETRY. 183 

Those tiny steps go pattering out 

Amid the winter snow, 
And through the grassy meadow-lanes, 

What time the spring-flowers blow ; 
They find the bluest violets 

On the hill-side, by their scent, 
And many a pale wood-blossom 

Where only they frequent. 

The' precious faith of childhood — 

Alas, that 't is so brief ! 
For time, the great magician. 

Is a remorseless thief! 
Too soon they learn that perfect Truth 

On earth is rarely known, 
And that Life's surest, only hope^ 

Is found in Heaven alone ! 

The free, light heart of childhood. 

It is a holy thing ! 
And ever o'er its inmost shrine 

An angel spreads his wing. 
Be faithful to your sacred trust, 

Ye to whose charge 'tis given — 
For is it not a hallowed task. 

To train the heirs of Heaven ! 



THE EARLY DEAD. 

O BLEST is the lot of the early dead, 

Who have gone from our midst with a noiseless tread! 

And softer than pillows of down, I ween, 

Is their couch of rest in the church-yard green ! 



184 POETRY. 

They have passed away from the noise and strife, 
From the busy turmoil of mortal life ; 
They have followed the path which the Saviour trod, 
Through the darksome tomb, to the arms of God ! 

The early dead ! they have passed away, 
In their opening bloom, like the blooms of May ; 
From the chilling frosts and the storms of time, 
They rest secure in the Eden-clime. 

Ere clouds of sorrow arose, to dim 

The gems of hope on life's fountain-brim, — 

Ere shadows of falsehood had darkened round, 

And their feet seemed treading enchanted ground, — 

Ere sin had come, with its withering blight, 

And veiled their spirits in deepest night, — 

While their steps were light, and their hearts were gay, 

The young and the lovely have passed away ! 

O, blessed are they who in youth depart. 
With a stainless brow and a sinless heart ; 
For the purest tears of our souls are shed 
Above the graves of the early dead ! 



"BEAR THE CROSS AND WEAR THE 
CROWN." 

Lo ! from Calvary's awful height, 
Breaks a flood of living light ; 
There, to win a royal prize, 
On the Cross Emanuel dies ! 

Christian Pilgrim ! onward press 
To the goal of righteousness ; 



poETRir. 185 

Counting worldly gain as loss, 
Like thy Master, hear the Cross . 

Ye who tears of blood have wept 
O'er the graves where loved ones slept, 
Let not grief your thoughts engross — 
Meekly strive to bear your Cross ! 

Thou, whose proud, aspiring soul 
Burns to win a loftier goal ! 
Earthly honors are but dross — 
Follow Christ, and bear his Cross ! 

Whether through the flowery mead. 
Or up the steep ascent, it lead, 
Or where mountain-billows toss, 
There, unshrinking, bear the Cross! 

Thou whose spirit has been tried 
By the scoffs and sneers of pride, — 
Heed thou not the world's cold frown, 
" Bear the Cross, and win the Crown ! " 

" Bear the Cross," the Master saith ; 
" Be ye faithful unto death — 
Firm and dauntless mid the strife, 
Ye shall wear a crown of Life ! " 



YEARNINGS FOR THE DEPARTED 

Come back to me, beloved ! 
My fainting spirit is so lone and weary, 
And life doth seem to me so dark and dreary, 

Now thou art gone ! 
I miss thy smile amid the dear home-faces, 
And thy light step in old familiar places. 



186 POETRY. 

Come, with thy gladsome voice — • 
With its rich floods of music ever gushing-, 
The heart's wild tumult into stillness hushing, 

With its all-potent spell I 
Touch the heart-lyre with thy seraphic finger, 
And Joy and Peace amid its chords shall linger. 

I watch for thee in vain ; 
In the green meadow-paths, where violets, springing, 
Their dewy fragrance on the air are flinging, 

And by the moss-rimmed fount. 
When gentle Eve the earth in tears is steeping, 
Or Night's dark curtain-folds are round it sweeping. 

I see thy blue eyes' light 
In the soft radiance of star-light gleaming; 
Thy golden hair, in the broad sunshine streaming ; 

In the white clouds, thy brow ! 
I hear thy voice in the soft noontide showers, 
And the low breathings of the nodding flowers ! 

Must it be ever thus ? 
Wilt thou be mine no more except in spirit. 
Thou who my heart's whole kingdom didst inherit — 

Nor feel thy loving arms 
Around my neck, with soft caresses, twining. 
Or thy dear head upon my breast reclining ? 

It may not be. I dream ! 
But when the misty veil at length is riven, 
That hides the glories of the upper heaven. 

And we see '■'■face to face! ^^ 
Then shall our souls be joined, no more to sever, 
And thou 'It be mine, my best-beloved, forever ! 



POETRY. 187 

STANZAS 

ON THE DEATH OF THE ELDEST CHILD OF J. S. TOMPKINS. 

A ROSE-BUD has been gathered, 

To grace the bright bouquet 
Which on the Saviour's loving breast 

His trusting followers lay. 
It blossomed but a little span, 

In this fair world of ours ; 
Then angel hands transplanted it, 

Td bloom in brighter bowers. 

O, gentle hearts had watched that bud, 

To see its leaves expand ; 
And watered it with joyful tears, 

And trained with careful hand. 
They skeltered it from noonday heat, 

From cold and storm and blight, 
And trembled, lest the fragile thing 

Should perish from their sight. 

But blessings seemed to rest on them, 

And on their rose-bud fair ; 
It grew — its fragrance filled their home, 

And well repaid their care : 
When, lo ! a breeze that fanned the flower, 

As if in sportive play, 
A devastating wind became. 

And swept the bud away ! 

But Love had marked its course, and though 

We writhe beneath the rod, 
Let not our weak and faithless hearts 

Question the ways of God ! 



/ 

188 POETRY. 



Enough to know that nothing more 
The rose-bud shall molest ; 

And that it blooms in beauty now 
Upon the Saviour's breast ! 



ISABEL. 
1 AM ever with thee, dearest, 
In thy loneliest hour nearest. 
When no mortal ken thou fearest, 

Isabel ! 
In the bright and glorious sunlight, 
In the soft and mellow twilight. 
Mid the depest shades of midnight, 

Isabel ! 

"When thy heart is filled with gladness, 
When thy soul is sick with sadness, 
Or thy brain o'er-wrought to madness, 

Isabel ! 
Then thy joy or grief I 'm sharing. 
Like thee, gladsome smiles I 'm wearing, 
Or Sorrow's burthen bearing, 
For thy love's sake, 
Isabel ! 

I have loved thee long and truly. 
Yet ne'er have dared to woo thee, 
Or wildly to pursue thee, 

Isabel ! 
Yet a tie that nought can sever 
Binds my soul and thine together, 
And I know we are forever 
One in spirit, 

Isabel ! 



POETRY. 189 

I may see thee wed another, 
Deeming me but as a brother, 
And all selfish feelings smother, 

Isabel ! 
But when earthly ties are riven, 
And we meet, mine own, in heaven. 
By a token, spirit-given, 
I shall know thee, 

Isabel ! 



LIGHT AND SHADOW. 

A LEAF FROM THE VOLUME OF LIFE. 

Canst picture to thy heart, beloved, an old ancestral 

hall, 
With towers of gray and massive stone, and ivy-covered 

wall ; 
Its wide, far-stretching avenues of tall and ancient trees. 
Whose mighty limbs sway to and fro in every passing 

breeze ? 

That stately mansion stands beneath old England's 
changeful skies, 

And pleasant is its grizzly face when sunshine on it lies. 

There, oft have Pleasure's votaries met around the social 
hearth, 

And oft those walls have echoed back the sound of joy- 
ful mirth. 

Not many years have passed away, since from that 

lordly dome 
A fair young flower was borne away, to grace another 

home ; 

16 



190 POETRY. 

A gentle bride, upon whose brow scarce sixteen sum- 
mers smiled, 

Full of confiding tenderness, — half woman and half 
child ! 

The woman's graceful dignity and fondly trusting love 
With childhood's pure simplicity and innocence inwove ; 
And there were in the untroubled depths of those clear 

azure eyes 
He dealings of a soul that claimed high kindred with the 

skies. 

She was the last and fairest flower of all that ancient 
line, 

And many a gallant cavalier had worshipped at her 
shrine ; 

But one, the playmate of her youth, had borne the prize 
away. 

And village bells chimed merrily for Edith's wedding- 
day. 

O, fair she was to look upon, in satin robe arrayed, 
Her glossy, golden tresses twined in many a graceful 

braid ; 
While here and there, like sunbeams, fell a few soft, 

drooping curls. 
Around the pure and open brow, that gleamed like 

molten pearls ! 

Bring hither shining myrtle-leaves, and orange-blossoms 

fair, 
And bid them smile in loveliness amid the bride's bright 

hair ! 
Bring fresh and dewy blossoms, the earliest buds of May, 
Meet offering for one as fair and beautiful as they ! 



POETRY. 191 

# ^ ^ # # # 

A year hath passed — one little year ! and to her ancient 

home, 
With withered hopes and blighted heart, that gentle 

bride hath come ! 
The smile of trustful confidence has vanished from her 

face, 
Her eye has lost its starry light, her step its careless 

grace. 

The canker-worm has nipped the bud in its first opening 

bloom, 
And vainly seek they to avert fair Edith's early doom ! 
They bore her o'er the waters to Madeira's sunny isle, 
And strove, with many a gentle lure, her sorrows to 

beguile ! 

But day by day her fragile form fainter and weaker 

grew, 
And deeper in her sunken cheek became the crimson 

hue. 
But this could not forever last ; and so, one balmy day, 
Unto the trembling, hoping sire, she summoned strength 

to say — * 

" Father ! 't is vain to spend the hours in idle dreamings 

now; 
I feel the icy hand of death lie chill upon my brow ! 
O, take me hence ! I fain would breathe my native air 

once more — 
I cannot bear to make my grave upon this foreign shore ! 

"il% childhood^s home! like music-tones upon my ear it 

falls ! 
[ see its ancient battlements, its lofty, pillared halls ; 



192 POETRY. 

The sunny lawn, the wooded park, the grass-enriching 

pond; 
The hedge-rows green, the flowery lanes, the village 

church beyond ! 

"0, take me thither once again ! — this isle is green and 
fair, 

And flowers unknown to northern climes perfume the 
balmy air ; — 

Sweeter to me the fragrance won from fields of new- 
mown hay. 

And dearer far the hawthorn glen where I was wont to 
play ! 

" And, father ! lay me not to rest within the burial-place 
Where lie the ashes of the brave, the honored of our 

race ! 
Nor let the storied marble tower in pride above my head, 
To blazon forth the lineage and virtues of the dead ! 

"But in the green old church-yard, through which, a 

happy bride, 
One little year ago, I walked, wheh he was at my side ; 
Within the brightest, sunniest nook, where graceful 

willows wave. 
And purple violets gem the sod — there make my lowly 

grave! 

"0, I shall sweetly sleep amid the scenes I love so 

well ; 
The chimes that hailed my marriage morn shall sound 

my funeral knell ! 
The south wind, sighing through the grass, shall lull me 

to my rest. 
And flowers that gladdened erst my heart shall bloom 

upon my breast ! " 



POETRY. 193 

M, M, ^&, M, ' M, M, 

T?" •TC" TV" "JV- "76" TV" 

Within that ancient hall no more is heard the sound of 

mirth ; 
The fire is quenched upon the lone and desolated hearth! 
The voice is hushed that on the ear like sweetest music 

fell, 
And in her chosen sepulchre fair Edith resteth well ! 

O, plant ye not the morning yew, nor let the cypress 

wave, 
Ahove the green and sunny spot where ye have made 

her grave ! 
Bring hither pale, sweet violets ; 't is meet that they 

should shed 
Their fragrant incense on the couch where sleeps the 

early dead ! 



THE MECCAS OF MEMORY. 

Come, love, with me ! — dost see the willows yonder, 

And the green coppice where the sunlight plays ? 
Do you remember how we used to wander 

There, in the long, bright, golden summer days, 
Long years ago, when life seemed full of glory, 

And joy's bright mantle draperied all the earth, — 
When, with rude lay, or wild, chivalric story, 

We woke the echoes with our gladsome mirth ? 

Come to the woods ! the birds are gayly singing 
Amid the branches of those ancient trees, 

That used to listen to the merry ringing 
Of our light laughter on the summer breeze, 
16# 



194 POETRY. 

The golden oriole her nest suspended 

Among the elm-boughs ; and, at break of day, 

The woodland blue-bird's matin song ascended, 
And thence the sky -lark upward wheeled her way. 

The tiny brook, that all the day went singing 

Through the green meadow and the mossy dell, — ■ 
The yellow cowslips on its borders springing, 

The purple violets, and the foxglove-bell, — 
Are they not dear to thee as when together 

Through the dim wood-paths we were wont to roam, 
And spend the days of warm, sunshiny weather, 

Mischievous truants both from school and home ? 

Come to the hill-side where we used to clamber, 

Reckless of tattered frock or ruined shoe, 
To watch its summit bathed in liquid amber, 

And pluck the berries that profusely grew 
In shining clusters there I — do you remember 

The songs and dances in the harvest's prime, 
The merry nutting-frolics in September, 

The friendly gatherings at Christmas-time ? 

They are but memories now ! yet not less cherished 

Because time's misty veil is o'er them cast ; 
Not all their beauty from our hearts hath perished. 

Though the firet freshness of their bloom hath passed. 
Like spirits, still they haunt the gray old mountain. 

Or hide themselves within the lily's bell ; 
Or blend their whispers with the silvery fountain, 

That makes glad music in the lonely delL 

With noiseless trfead, their'footsteps still pursue us 
Through every spot where we were wont to rove ; 

In every breeze their gentle voices woo us, 
With words of tenderness and fervent love. 



POETRY. 195 

Come, then, blest spirits ! with your bright revealings, 
And strew sweet memories along our way, — 

But, ah ! ye bring not back the joyous feelings, 
The glad light-heartedness of childhood's day ! 

That may not be ! — life's freshness has departed, 

And clouds have gathered in the summer skies ; 
Hopes have been crushed, and dearest wishes thwarted, 

And fairy visions dazzle not our eyes. 
But, mid the heart's lone, desolated places, 

Its ruined altars and its fallen fanes, 
Unseared, unblighted. Memory's green oasis 

In amaranthine beauty still remains. 



-4 — ■ 



WHAT SHALL I WISH FOR THEE1 

What shall I wish for thee ? 
Thou who art Heaven's best, choicest gifts possessing, 

Whose pathway ne'er was shadowed by a cloud, 
How shall I ask for thee a needed blessing 

With which thou art not lavishly endowed ? 
For wedded love with happiness has crowned thee, 

And playful children frolic at thy knee \ 
And as their lisping accents float around thee, 

What were a world's wealth, in exchange, to thee, 
With thy true woman's heart ? 

I can but breathe for thee 
A simple prayer ! May love forever bless thee, — 

Make green thy pathway and illume thy sky ! 
May Hope and Joy — sweet angels — still caress thee, 

And wreathe thy brow with buds that never die ! 



196 POETRY, 

Within thy heart sweet Truth hath reared her altar, 
Meekness and Faith guard well the sacred shrine ; 

Upborne by these, thy footsteps ne'er shall falter, 
But still press onward to the goal divine. 
The Paradise of rest ! 

My offering is but small, 
Yet thou wilt not despise the humble flower. 

Though others bloom around it lovelier far; 
The eye, bedazzled by the sun's full power, 

May calmly gaze upon the small, faint star, — 
So when thine eye, o'er many a tribute straying, 

Shall rest a moment on the humble spot 
That bears my name, thou 'It hear a whisper saying, 

'T is Friendship's offering, — reject it not ! 

Let it bring thoughts of me I 



PROSE. 



EMMA BEAUMONT. 

" Where hath not woman stood, 
Strong in affection's might ? a reed upborne 
By an o'ermastering current !" 

"Another tremendous failure!" said Mr. Eger- 
ton, as he joined his family, who were collected 
round a cheerful fire; ''the house of Beaumont &* 
Co., thought to be the best and safest in the city, is 
down — a complete smash ! Poor Beaumont ! I 
pitied him from my soul — with his large family, 
and brought up in such style as they have been ! 
It must be a terrible stroke ! " 

" I wonder how his dashing wife will bear this 
reverse ! " said Mrs. E. "To give up her splendid 
house, and furniture, and the rich dresses she 
prides herself so much in, must be severe indeed." 

''O, I suppose they think that Miss Emma's 
beauty and accomplishments will get her an estab- 
lishment," said Mary. 

" Yes, but there are few gentlemen disinterested 
enough, now-a-days, to marry a portionless beauty," 
said her sister, '• and I " 

" Come, come, girls ! no more scandal," said 
their brother, ''or I shall think it is because you 



198 PROSE. 

envy her. I won't hear Emma Beaumont talked 
of in this way ; for, let me tell you, there is one, at 
least, who would be glad to marry her, without a 
farthing." 

And now, if you please, reader, we will look in 
upon another scene. In a spacious and handsome 
parlor, in one of the princely mansions of our city, 
a group is collected, worthy the pencil of an artist. 
Before the fire, in a splendid rocking-chair, sits a 
stately woman, in the prime of life, dressed in the 
height of the last Parisian fashion, and apparently 
engaged in deciphering the figures of the rich 
Turkey carpet. On a low ottoman beside her, sit 
two beautiful children, evidently twins, with eyes 
and minds intent on a new picture-book ; while at 
the table, a boy of fourteen, and a girl some two 
years younger, are deeply engaged in reading. But 
the charm of the circle is a young lady, who may 
have numbered some seventeen summers; she is 
about the middling height of females, and beauti- 
fully proportioned, yet so slender as almost to 
give the idea of fragility ; her eyes are large and 
brilliant, and of the softest hazel color; and her 
hair, which hangs in ringlets round a neck of 
alabaster, is of that rare and most beautiful shade 
which the Quaker poet so perfectly describes as 
''brown in the shadow, and gold in the sun; " add 
to these a smooth, fair forehead, neither too high 
nor too low, a nose neither Grecian, aquiline, nor la 
petite retroussi^ but perfectly pretty and feminine, 
and a hand and foot of unparalleled beauty, and 
you have a true portrait of Emma Beaumont. She 



PROSE. 199 

is standing beside her harp, and tossing back her 
rich curls, showing her beautiful face lit up with 
a most dazzling smile, as she exclaims, '' I have 
mastered it at length, mamma ! How glad I shall 
be, when dear papa comes home ! You know he 
says my songs make him forget his petty cares and 
annoyances ; and I am sure this will enchant him ; 
and this symphony on the harp is exquisite ; — my 
beautiful harp ! I would rather part with every- 
thing I have than this. Do you know, mamma, 

Herbert Courtne}?- says •" 

But before she could finish her sentence, the 
front door was hastily opened and closed, and with 
a step wholly unlike his usual dignified pace, Mr. 
Beaumont rushed into the room, and threw him- 
self on the sofa. Emma left her harp, and flew to 
her father's side; Henry and Mary dropped their 
book, while the two younger children sat stupefied 
with terror, and even Mrs. Beaumont was startled 
out of her apathy, and came forward with hurried 
inquiries as to what was the matter. As soon as 
he could speak, he exclaimed, "We are ruined — 
undone ! You and my children are beggars ! " but 
ere he had finished, Mrs. B. fell to the floor, in 
hysterics. Emma, half distracted, flew to her 
mother's assistance; she was carried to her room, 
and the usual restoratives having been applied, she 
soon sank into a profound sleep. Emma then 
sought her father, to hear the extent of their mis- 
fortunes. The children had been sent to bed, and 
she found him alone, pacing the floor with rapid 
strides. 



200 PROSE. 

" Dear papa, is it indeed so bad as you say ? Is 
there nothing left?" 

"Nothing! not even the smallest pittance; our 
house, furniture, all, must go; and what will 
become of you, I know not." 

"Do not fear for us, papa; we are young and 
healthy; and surely you have friends, who will 
not see us want." 

"Ah, Emma, you have not lived long enough to 
learn the deceitfalness of the Avorld ! Prosperity 
will always make friends, but adversity is the 
season to try them." 

After several vain attempts on her part to coin- 
fort him, the heart-stricken man blessed her, and 
sought his chamber. The next morning he was 
found dead in his chair. It was supposed that, on 
leaving Emma, he had gone to his room, and 
instead of seeking rest, he had sat revolving plans, 
and thinking of his entanglements, till his over- 
wrought brain had sunk beneath the struggle, and 
brought on an attack of apoplexy, and the husband 
and father had gone to his final account. The 
widow gave way to her feelings in hysteric sobs, 
and bursts of grief, mingled with lamentations over 
her fallen fortunes, and Emma was left to see to 
all her affairs. With an aching heart, but a calm 
brow and voice, she gave the necessary directions 
respecting the funeral; and when all was over, 
with the assistance of the surviving partner of the 
house, she set about adjusting her father's busi- 
ness. At length the day came when the sale of 
furniture was to take place. Emma had reserved 



PROSE. 201 

only some of the simplest articles to furnish their 
new abode, but she could not bear to part with her 
harp. It was her father's gift ; and she had taken 
so much pleasure in learning his favoritevairs, and 
playing them to him, that she felt it was too much 
to yield that ; but then came the thought of. her 
helpless brother and sisters, and her still more 
helpless mother, who, nurtured as she had been in 
the midst of luxury, and gratified with every 
refinement for more than forty years, could not 
submit patiently to her misfortunes. Emma 
thought of this, and the harp was placed with 
other articles for sale. 

The sale-day came, and passed; and before 
evening Emma ushered the family into their new 
abode. Humble enough it certainly was, and vast 
the change from the luxurious mansion in the 
most aristocratic part of the city, to a wooden 
domicil in a narrow street ; their apartments con- 
sisting of one room, which served for kitchen and 
parlor,, and three small bed-rooms. The larger 
room was covered with a cheap carpet, the shut- 
ters were closed, and the nea,t white curtains 
closely drawn, and a cheerful fire gave to it an 
appearance of comfort, humble though it were. 
Into this place Emma conducted her mother ; and 
bitter were her complaints against it. ''What 
would our friends, the Selbys and the Delanos. say 
to us, in such a hole as this 7" was her constant 
reply to Emma's attempts to win her to something 
like contentment. It was in vain she sought to 
draw her attention to the little comforts of the 
17 



202 PROSE. 

room, and placed her in the large, well-cushioned 
rocking-chair, the only article of luxury they pos- 
sessed, and which Emma had sold her trinkets to 
procure; her only answer was, "That ever I 
should live to enter such a hole as this ! — I, who 
was born to such different prospects ! " 

As soon as they were settled in their new home, 
Emma began to lay plans for their future support. 
She applied to some of their former friends, with a 
proposal of teaching music, — an accomplishment 
in which she was a proficient. Her voice was 
remarkably fine, and had been well cultivated ; 
but, '^She was so young, they feared she could 
not command sufiicient respect from her pupils." 
Then she applied for fine needle-work, but was 
equally unsuccessful. They were truly sorry for 
poor dear Mrs. Beaumont and their dear Emma, 
and would be delighted to assist them, but really, 
just now, they had no sewing to put out; or they 
had a sempstress in the house, as it was so much 
cheaper, and in these distressing times it behooved 
people to be economical; and with compliments to 
poor, dear Mrs. B., Emma was civilly dismissed 
from the houses where her presence had been so 
warmly welcomed a short time before. Poor 
Emma turned her steps homeward, after her last 
application, sad and weary. Her funds were nearly 
exhausted, and a severe winter was setting in; it 
was November when her father died, and it was 
now near Christmas. In her better days, Emma 
had occasionally met with Mr. B., the manager of 
one of the theatres ; and he had frequently, after 



PROSE. 203 

hearing her sing, expressed a wish that she were 
in a different station of life, that her services might 
benefit his estabhshment. When she reached 
home on the evening after her vain attempt to get 
employment, she found a note from Mr. B., in 
which, in the most delicate terms, he stated that 
having heard she wished to devote her talents to 
the service of her family, he would offer her an 
engagement, on the most liberal terms, to sing in 
a new opera, about to be brought out, if she could 
bring her mind to accept it. At first Emma was 
shocked at the proposal. Her delicacy revolted at 
the idea of exhibiting her person before the gaping 
multitude, and more especially did she dread the 
sneering remarks of the companions of former 
days. She was half inclined to refuse the offer at 
once ; but she looked around on the group whose 
sole dependence she was, and strove to overcome 
her reluctance. She then, with an anxious heart, 
made known the contents of the note to her 
mother, who, as she expected, entirely disapproved 
it; indeed, she considered the proposal as the 
height of insolence; "as if it was not bad enough 
to be obliged to live in this miserable hovel, with- 
out being insulted in this manner ! " 

"But, my dear mother," said Emma, to whom 
the project seemed more feasible, now she was 
called upon to combat her mother's prejudices, 
"we shall be unable to retain even this place, 
unless I can find some employment. All my exer- 
tions to-day have been unsuccessful ; our money is 
nearly gone, and why should not the talents which 



204 PROSE. 

God has given me, and which my dear father so 
carefully cultivatedj be devoted to the service of 
the dear ones he has left ? There is no disgrace in 
the employment ; and why should we care for the 
sneers of those who formerly courted our society?" 

Many objections had Emma to combat, but at 
length Mrs. Beaumont gave her consent. The 
next morning Emma called on Mr. B. Her trem- 
bling ring was answered by a servant, who 
ushered her into a handsome apartment, where 
Mr. B. was writing. He rose and saluted her cour- 
teously as she entered; and, after some trifling 
remarks, she proceeded to speak of the business 
which brought her there. Soon the preliminaries 
were gone over, and the services required of her 
and the remuneration were settled. The worthy 
manager then introduced her to the leading mem- 
bers of the company with whom she was to be 
connected, and she returned home to study the 
part assigned her. The thoughts that awakened 
a strong struggling between duty and inclination 
may be in some degree imagined; but little can 
the reader know the feelings she experienced as 
she wended her way home. She seemed to be in 
a dream, and the moving world around her was 
all unreal. But the dreaminess did not long con- 
tinue, for the strength she had invoked God to 
breathe into her soul was felt, and once more her 
purpose was firmly fixed, and the resolve renewed, 
to sacrifice everything that filial duty required. 

At length the night of her dibut came. The 
theatre was crowded almost to sufibcation, and 



PROSE. ^ 205 

intense interest was manifested by both young and 
old. The curtain rose, and amid the buzz of 
admiring voices, Emma came forward to the foot- 
Hghts, and commenced her song. A dead silence 
reigned in the house, and every note of her clear, 
sweet voice, though it faltered at first, could be 
distinctly heard. As she proceeded, she became 
inspired with the beauty of the music ; her tones, by 
degrees, gained strength and richness, till at length 
they swelled into strains of divinest harmony. 
Her song was succeeded by thunders of applause. 
Through the whole evening she supported her part 
as she had begun, and the eyes and hearts of her 
audience proclaimed her triumph complete. 

-ii^ ^ ->/v ^ -it- 

■TV" •Tr 'Tt* 'fr* "TV" 

More than a year has passed, fair reader, since we 
were first introduced to the Beaumont family ; and 
now, if you please, we will look in upon them 
again. We find them in a small, but genteel- 
looking house, in a neat and respectable part of the 
city. Mrs. Beaumont is nearly reconciled to her 
lot, and only repines occasionally ; Henry is about 
to enter the navy ; and Mary, with the assistance 
of the younger girls between school hours, is able 
to earn a small pittance by her needle. But 
Emnia ! ah, she is sadly altered, yet still how 
lovely ! Her form appears even more fragile than 
usual ; she is more sedate, and those who love her 
best perceive, with anxiety, that her eye is dim 
and her cheek pale, save when under the excite- 
ment of her professional duties. It is near the 
close of her second season; to-night is the last of 
17=^ 



206 . PROSE. 

her engagement. She has more than fulfilled the 
promise of her debul — she is the brightest star in 
the musical firmament. More than one excelleftt 
matrimonial offer she has refused ; for who would 
support her family, if she were gone 7 

But hark ! there is a ring at the door, and a gen- 
tleman, apparently fifty years of age, enters their 
little parlor. After the customary salutations had 
passed, addressing himself to Mrs. B., he said, "I 
perceive that you do not know me ; have you for- 
gotten Charles Beaumont?" Joyful was the recog- 
nition — it was indeed the only brother of her hus- 
band, and an early playmate of her own; but 
twenty years spent beneath the burning sun of a 
tropical clime had browned his skin and whitened 
his hair, and so altered his whole appearance, that 
we cannot marvel if none recognized him. I said 
that his outer man was changed, but the inner 
man was still the same. Frank, free, generous, 
and kind-hearted was he, when, at six and twenty, 
he left his native land ; and equally kind and gen- 
erous was he at six and forty. He went to India 
almost penniless, and he returned rich, yet with no 
other desire than to lavish his wealth on those 
whom he loved. The story of their misfortunes 
was soon told, and Emma's conduct elicited ex- 
pressions of the warmest admiration from her 
uncle. 

"She is a noble girl," he exclaimed, "but I 
shan't have it so any longer. You must leave the 
opera now, Emma ; and if you will, you may sing 
to me, and in return I will take upon myself the 



PROSE. 207 

task you have been performing. What say you, 
Emma, — shall it be so?" 

• " Most gladly, dear uncle ; this is the last night 
of my engagement, and then I am at your ser- 
vice." X 

" Remember, it is the last night j'^ said her uncle, 
as he handed her from the carriage at the entrance 
of the theatre. She Ijttle thought then that the 
words were prophetic. 

Never had Emma Beaumont looked so beauti- 
ful as on that night ; and when the curtain rose, 
the burst of admiration that greeted the fair vocal- 
ist told the power of her charms. Her graceful 
form was arrayed in a robe of pure white satin ; 
her rich hair was parted on her fair forehead, and 
drawn into a knot at the back of her head, while 
here and there a straggling ringlet fell on her neck, 
as if to relieve its dazzling whiteness, and her large, 
glorious hazel eyes were brilliant with excitement. 
After the first round of applause, the house was 
still ; and when the low, sweet voice of the song- 
stress commenced a wild and plaintive melody, 
every hepat seemed to stop its pulsations. By 
degrees the air changed, and the strains became 
clear and loud as the notes of a bugle, and gradu- 
ally increasing, ended in a peal of triumphant 
melody, the last note unheard in the general burst 
of ecstasy. But, in the midst of the excitement, 
while a thousand voices were calling for the popu- 
lar vocalist, the worthy manager made his appear- 
ance, and announced to the waiting multitude that 
Miss B. had ruptured a blood-vessel, and could not 



208 PROSE. 

return ! Her nerves had been wrought to the 
severest tension, and in the midst of her triumph, 
death had set his seal on the devoted girl. Site 
was borne to her home by her agonized uncle, and 
the best medical aid was procured, — but in vain ! 
She lingered, and a change of air and scene was 
recommended, and it was eagerly tried ; for a few 
days she seemed to be better, and sat for a short 
time every day in the piazza before the cottage, 
and even walked out once or twice, supported by 
her uncle and her mother ; but her strength soon 
failed — day by day she grew weaker and weaker, 
and faded like a stricken flower before their sight. 
It was toward the close of a bright summer's 
day, Emma had been unusually weak and lan- 
guid, but as the day declined, she seemed to revive 
a little. Her anxious family were seated round 
her bedside, watching her pale countenance, when 
suddenly she raised herself from the pillow, and 
with flashing eyes, and a voice clear and strong as 
in the days of her health, she began warbling the 
beautiful air which she had sung once only, on 
that fatal last night, whose triumph cost her — 
life. None ofiered to arrest her ; and as the last 
notes died away, her head sank on the pillow. 
Her mother raised her gently ; but the last struggle 
was over, and the spirit of Emma Beaumont had 
passed away in that gush of heart-stirring melody ! 



PROSE. 209 



MARGARET LESLIE. 

* "If there be 

One eye thou fear'st to meet — one human voice 

Whose tones thou shrink'st from — Woman! veil thy face, 

And bow thy head — and die ! " hemans. 

Gentle reader ! dost love to muse on the lights 
and shadows of woman's life, and to hear the sim- 
ple chronicles of a country hamlet 7 If so, come 
with me to '^ our village." Is it not a lovely spot 1 
There is the neat white meeting-house — for hap- 
pily we have but one — and our little community 
hear with pleasure the word of God expounded by 
our venerable parson, wKo has labored here nearly 
all the years of his life, which are now many ! 
There is his dwelling peering through those beau- 
tiful elms, quiet and secluded, humble and unpre- 
tending as its beloved master; and there is the 
school-house, and scattered round are the flourish- 
ing fields and substantial dwellings of our farmers. 
But let us turn down this shaded lane, and we 
shall soon come to an old-fashioned cottage; the 
little garden in front is neatly kept, and the wood- 
bine which nearly covers the house gives it a 
romantic appearance. Some dozen years ago, that 
humble roof was the centre of attraction in our vil- 
lage. It was inhabited by an aged couple, who had 
lived a quiet and blameless life ; the old man had 
been a carpenter in his younger days, and the unit- 
ed industry of himself and wife had enabled them 
to purchase the little farm and cottage, where they 
had ever since dwelt, contented with their humble 
lot, and thankful for the blessings they enjoyed. 



210 PROSE. 

Of a large family which had been born to them, 
one only had lived beyond infancy ; she had now 
grown to womanhood, and at nineteen was the 
pride and joy of her parents, and the undisputed 
belle of the village. Queenly Margaret Leslie ! 
my heart glows as I think of thee, in thy swan- 
like and glorious beauty ! I remember thee in thy 
sunny girlhood — in the expansion of thy haughty 
womanhood — at the altar — among the gay and 
the wealthy — in thy coffin — in thy grave ! I have 
said Margaret was beautiful. In person she was 
tall and stately as Cleopatra; her hair was black, 
with that soft bluish tint which marks the wing of 
the raven ; her eyes were large, dark and dazzling, 
yet at times soft and melting in their expression ; 
and rendered even darker by long, silken, jetty 
lashes, which swept in a gentle curve, like a veil, 
upon the fair cheek ; her complexion was of that 
soft, rich, cream-like hue, which, beautiful at all 
times, lights up at night into marble whiteness, and 
gives to dark eyes an additional lustre. Her feat- 
ures were small, yet finely moulded; pride was 
stamped on her lofty brow, and her small, compact 
mouth bespoke a firm and determined spirit. Such 
as I have imperfectly described her, can you won- 
der that she was eagerly wooed by almost every 
swain in the village ? It was not entirely the effect 
of her person, but there was an irresistible fasci- 
nation in her manner, which impelled them onward, 
even when they felt that there was no hope, and 
that it must end in a refusal. It was not vanity 
that prompted her. No, no ! Margaret Leslie was 



PROSE. 211 

too proud to be vain ! She well knew the power 
of her charms, but she never exerted them for such 
conquests. She was the slave of ambition; her 
proud spirit longed to be away from the home of 
her childhood — all was too quiet, too same for her; 
she panted to go forth into the world — to be one 
of the actors in the busy walks of life ; she pined 
for wealth and grandeur, and for nobler subjects 
than the plodding inhabitants of a country village. 
The unbounded indulgence of her parents had 
allowed her access to a circulating library, and she 
had eagerly read, or rather devoured, ah the trashy 
novels of the day, and had dwelt upon the elabo- 
rately wrought scenes of high life, till she yearned 
to be one of the matley throng of fashion. 

About this time her wishes were gratified in a 
very unexpected manner. She had reached her 
twenty-first year unwedded; and having refused, 
one by one, all the beaux of the village, she began 
to fear lest she should be obliged to "waste her 
sweetness on the desert air." It was near the close 
of a bright day in June, that the village was set in 
commotion by the arrival of a gentleman. He was 
riding through the place, on his way to a town a 
few miles distant, when the chaise broke down, and 
he was obliged to go to the nearest tavern to wait 
till it could be mended. The stranger was a man of 
some forty odd years, and excessively ugly. He 
was short, and thick-set ; his face was bloated, his 
eyes aaaall and gray, his hair inclining to red, and 
the expression of his countenance almost repelling. 
It was soon discovered that he was a man of great 



212 PROSE. 

wealth and high standing in society, and conse- 
quently every attention was paid him by the land- 
lord. He was in a hurry to depart ; and while the 
chaise was repairing, he stood at the parlor win- 
dow of the inn, looking out on the road, and con- 
versing with the landlord about the village and its 
inhabitants, when his attention appeared to be sud- 
denly drawn to some one passing, and with a look 
of admiration, he exclaimed, ''Pray, who is that 
splendid looking girl? " 

"That is Margaret Leslie; she lives down the 
lane yonder, in the brown cottage, with her father 
and mother." 

The stranger followed her with his eyes till she 
was out of sight, and then, as Jfie landlord left the 
room, he muttered to himself, "Faith! she's a 
stately creature ! What an excitement she would 
raise in Washington ! I must see her again." 

Instead of proceeding on his journey that night, 
the stranger expressed his intention of remaining a 
short time in the village, and it was soon noised 
abroad that a rich bachelor was staying at the inn. 
His arrival was on Saturday night, and the next 
day a longer time than usual was devoted to the 
toilet by the single females of the hamlet. When 
the bachelor was seen, however, nearly every 
matrimonial dream was put to flight ; and he was 
viewed almost with terror. I said nearly every 
one ; for, in spite of his age, and his extreme ugh- 
ness, there was one who could entertain thoughts 
of captivating him ; and that one was Margaret 
Leslie! She closed her eyes to his person, and 



PROSE. 213 

thought of the charms of his wealth — of the cir- 
cle in which he moved, and of which alone she 
had read, thought and dreamed, for so long, and she 
bent her whole mind upon the accomplishment of 
her object. As for Mr. Dalrymple, — for such was 
the stranger's name, — he had been struck with 
Margaret's appearance, and left no means untried 
till he gained an introduction to her. From that time, 
his visits to the brown cottage became frequent. 
His stay in the village was protracted, and when 
at length he departed, it was as the affianced hus- 
band of Margaret ; — he was going to Washington 
to prepare his residence for the bride, and was to 
return in a few weeks to claim her. 

The wedding day came; the bridegroom having 
arrived the night before, in a splendid barouche, 
drawn by a span of beautiful horses. The village 
was all a-stir ; the church was crowded, and the 
bridal party soon made their appearance. Never 
was there a greater contrast than between that ill- 
assorted couple; Margaret's stately figure seeming 
even more majestic beside the insignificant form of 
the bridegroom. She was arrayed in snowy satin, 
and her raven tresses were ornamented with a 
bandeau of pearls, which, with a necklace of the 
same, was the wedding gift of Mr. Dalrymple. 
The hectic of excitement burnt on her cheek, and 
her eyes sparkled with unusual lustre ; yet, during 
the service, her lip sometimes curled as if in scorn, 
and an expression of disgust passed over her beau- 
tiful face, which gave the lie to the solemn vows 
she was pronouncing, '' to love, honor, and obey." 
18 



214 PROSE. 

At length the ceremony was over ; they returned 
to the cottage, where the wedding dress was ex- 
changed for a travelUng habit ; they entered the 
barouche, and amid the tears of her aged parents, 
the sneers of some, and the envy of a few, Mar- 
garet Dahymple was whirled from the home of her 
childhood, to enter upon the gayeties and dangers 
of a city life. * ^ ^ 

We will pass lightly over the next two years, 
which were spent in a round of" fashionable dissi- 
pation. And was Margaret happy? Alas for 
her, who, brought up in the quiet of a country vil- 
lage, is cast at once into the vortex of worldly pleas- 
ure, without any fixed principle to sustain her, 
and without that surest of safeguards to woman, 
— her husband's love ! But Margaret had no right 
to complain ; she had married her husband for his 
wealth, with a perfect knowledge of his character. 
Knowing him to be ugly in person, disagreeable in 
manners, — knowing that he sought her for her 
beauty orily, and regarding him with a feeling 
little short of loathing and disgust, — she had yet 
chosen to marry him, and she had received all that 
she had anticipated. He had placed her in an 
almost princely mansion, surrounded her with 
luxuries, introduced her to the circle in which 
she had so longed to move, and had her instructed 
in every accomplishment; — all this was true, and 
yet — Margaret was not satisfied ! 

-" You must put on your sweetest smiles to-night, 
Mrs. Dalrymple," said one of her morning visitors. 

''Why so?" 



PROSE. 215 

"O, you will go to Mrs. Selwyn's, of course; and 
Mr. Aubrey is to be there ! '^ 

"And pray who is Mr. Aubrey?" 

"Is it possible you have never heard of him? 
Why, he is an artist of great celebrity; and, more- 
over, he is rich and handsome, and a great favorite 
with the ladies." 

At one end of Mrs. Selwyn's drawing-room, that 
night, stood two gentlemen ; one of them intently 
observing a lady, who was carelessly turning over 
some engravings. 

" There is the most splendid woman in the room," 
said he to his companion; "can you tell me her 
name?" 

"That is Mrs. Dalrymple — yonder is her hus- 
band." 

" Not that old, ugly man, surely?" 

" The same." 

" Heavens ! what a sacrifice ! " 

" Not so much a sacrifice, as a bargain," replied 
his companion. " Old Dalrymple found her in an 
obscure country village; he fell in love with her 
beauty — she with his wealth; he purchased the 
one with the other, and so they are about on a par; 
but come, shall I introduce you ? " 

In less than an hour, William Aubrey and Mar- 
garet Dalrymple found themselves conversing as 
familiarly as though they had been acquainted 
from childhood. That night commenced a new 
era in Margaret's life ; she had invited Aubrey to 
call at her house, and his visits became frequent ; 
no party was complete without him, and she cared 



216 PROSE. 

to go to none unless he was invited. When nol 
engaged in his professional duties, he might always 
b.e 4bund escorting her in her rides and walks; 
dancing with her at every ball, and admitted to her 
house, at all times, on the most familiar footing. 
Thus month after month went by ; and under the 
specious name of friendship, Aubrey and Margaret 
were entangling themselves in the meshes of an 
unholy love, when some one hinted to Mr. Dalrym- 
ple the impropriety of Aubrey being the constant 
gallant of his wife. He had seen, with perfect un- 
concern, the progress of the acquaintance; but 
though he had long since ceased to care for Mar- 
garet himself, he did not choose that she should 
bestow her affections on any one else, or bring any 
disgrace upon his name. Accordingly, when Au- 
brey called, the next morning, to escort Margaret 
on horseback, he was received by Mr. D., and for- 
bidden to act any longer as cavalier to his wife. 
Mortified and angry, Aubrey left the house, breath- 
ing imprecations on the husband, and more than 
ever in love with the wife. He wrote to Margaret 
in the most impassioned terms, telling her of his 
reception, and begging an interview. It was granted 
— and from that time stolen visits passed between 
them, and frequent letters were exchanged, filled 
with expressions of hatred to Mr. Dalrymple, and 
of devotion to each other. But at length the crisis 
of affairs came. Margaret had gone to a ball where 
she expected to meet iVubrey ; but some unforeseen 
event taking place to hinder his going, he sent a 
note, which not arriving till she had gone, her hus- 



PKOSE. 217 

band opened and read. Filled with rage, he 
awaited her return. Not finding Aubrey, as she 
expected, she returned earlier than usual; she 
entered the drawing-room, and there stood her hus- 
band, holding in his hand the open letter, while on 
the table stood a little cabinet, containing chiefly 
Aubrey's letters and his miniature ; the lock broken, 
and the contents scattered about. For a moment 
Margaret stood confounded, but at length she found 
courage to demand by what authority he dared 
open her letter-case? 

'' By the authority of an insulted and outraged 
husband ! Did you think, because I was old and 
ugly, as you please to terhi me, that I was blind 
also? " And with bitter revilings he left her pres- 
ence. 

That night Margaret Dalrymple left her home, 
her husband, and all that woman should venerate, 
and threw herself on the protection of her lover. 
Mr. Dalrymple procured a divorce, and the guilty 
pair took up their abode in one of the southern 
cities. Separated forever from the man she loathed 
and despised, dwelling, though as his acknowledged 
mistress, v/itii the man she worshipped, Margaret 
for a time fancied herself completely happy. Her 
low, sweet voice seemed to gain additional melody, 
as it breathed forth words of passionate tenderness 
— her large, dark eyes were fascinating in the soft- 
ness of their changed expression; and the color 
came and went on her fair cheek as it had not done 
since the days of her sunny girlhood. But, alas 
for the victim of illicit love ! beauty without virtue 
18^ 



21S PROSE. 

soon loses its hold upon its votaries. Aubrey was 
a man of little principle, and having no respect for 
the woman who had renounced her domestic ties, 
however hateful, he soon grew tired of the beauty 
which had attracted him. * ^ ^ ^ 

Two years have passed since Margaret's fall from 
virtue — one marked by the wild excitement of 
guilty love, and the other by its gradual decline 
from the ardor of passion to coldness and indiffer- 
ence. Let us enter this splendid apartment; the 
thick Turkey carpet gives back not the slightest 
sound, and we may safely take a survey. It is 
furnished in princely style, and in a rich crimson 
fauteuil sits a superb woman, dressed in a robe of 
costly black velvet ; jewels are upon her beautiful 
neck and arms, and flashing from her imperial 
brow and amid the luxuriant braids of her glossy 
raven hair, yet scarce matching the lustre of her 
magnificent dark eyes. She is turning the leaves 
of a richly bound volume ; yet there is a troubled 
look about her, which tells plainly that her thoughts 
are not with its contents. Ever and anon her eves 
fill with tears, as she raises them to the face of the 
other inmate of the room, a handsome man in the 
prime of life. His lip curls as he gazes on his 
beautiful companion, and he is speaking in a low, 
suppressed tone. Now his voice grows louder, and 
he taunts her in bitter terms with her passion for 
himself, with her desertion of her husband, and 
finally with her degraded position as his mistress. 
Margaret Leslie had risen from her seat as he went 
on, and she now stood erect, with folded arms ; her 



PROSE. 219 

cheek and lip were bloodless, and her eyes flashed 
with unutterable indignation, as she replied to his 
taunts. 

"William Aubrey," she exclaimed, "till I knew 
you, I was a proud but an unsullied being! You 
won me with your sophistry, and I loved you ; for 
you I forgot my matron dignity — for you I forsook 
my husband, my home, and virtue ! and icith you^ 
had you remained what I then thought 3^ou, 1 
would have been content to live in the most abject 
poverty. Disgrace, the loss of name and fame, were 
as nothing compared to your love; but that for 
which I gave up all, I have seen decline, day after 
day. This hour you have set the seal to your vil- 
lany, and she who has loved you with all the fer- 
vor of a first passion now loathes and detests you, 
and spurns you from her, as the veriest worm 
beneath her feet ! ^' And having poured out the 
torrent of her measureless scorn, she gathered up 
her drapery and left the room. 

But when Margaret gained her chamber, the 
spirit which had sustained her through that trying 
scene forsook her, and throwing herself into a chair, 
she buried her face in her hands, and burst into a 
passion of tears. When the first outbreaJr. of grief 
was over, the tide of memory flowed back ; she 
thought of the happy days of her childhood, of her 
cottage-home, and her venerable parents. Long 
she sat there in silent thought. At length she 
arose, and placing herself at her writing-desk, she 
penned the following note : 



220 PEOSE* 

" William Aubrey : — When this meets your eye, I shall 
have left your roof forever ; the scene of this night can never 
be forgotten. Deeply as I have sinned, surely your hand 
should not have been raised to crush the fallen. Yet am I 
justly punished ! I will return to the humble home of my 
childhood — to my kind old father and mother, if my shame 
has not already brought down their gray hairs with sorrow to 
the grave ! They, at least, will not cast off their only child, 
bitter though her transgressions have been. I will sue hum- 
bly for pardon, and it may be that my efforts may at length 
make atonement. Farewell, William ! may God forgive you, 
as truly as does Margaret Leslie." 

She folded, sealed, and directed her letter ; then 
taking off the jewels which decked her person, she 
returned them to their casket, locked it, and placed 
the key with her note ; then disrobing herself of 
her costly dress, she put on a dark and simple 
morning dress, and taking a little bundle of neces- 
sary clothing, and a small sum of money, she 
arrayed herself in a large mantle and bonnet, and 
left the house in silence. 

It was the evening of the fifth day since Mar- 
garet Leslie's departure, when a female traveller 
was seen entering our quiet village. She was 
closely enveloped in a sort of mantle, and her face 
was entirely concealed by a large, coarse straw 
bonnet; she walked slowly and painfully, as if 
worn down by fatigue, and now and then stopped 
to rest on the banks by the road-side. She turned 
down the little lane, and went on till she reached 
the brown cottage ; she stood gazing upon it for a 
few minutes, then suddenly pushing open the 
wicket gate, she passed into the little garden. But 



PROSE. 221 

on the threshold she paused; the window was 
open, for it was a warm and balmy evening in 
June; the curtains were not closely drawn, and 
she took a survey of the inmates, herself unseen. 
At the clean deal table sat an aged man, reading 
aloud to his wife from the word of God, which lay 
open before him. The part he had chosen was the 
parable of the ''Prodigal Son; " and as the wanderer 
drew nigh to the window, he was reading the words 
of the erring son, ''I will arise, and go to my 
father ! " The trembling Avoman leaned for sup- 
port against the wall, and had any one beheld her 
face, they might have seen the terrible workings of 
her mind. The old man went on, till he came to 
the return of the prodigal, and the joy of the father; 
and raising his eyes to his wife, he exclaimed, 
''Would we not in like manner receive and rejoice 
over our prodigal child? — guilty though she be, 
would not ive forgive her, and clasp to our hearts 
the miserable penitent?" 

The wanderer could bear no more ; with trem- 
bling hands, she raised the latch, and entering the 
humble room, Margaret Leslie fell senseless at the 
feet of her parents. The old woman raised the 
stranger, and removing the bonnet from her head, 
she cried — " Margaret — my child ! my child ! — ■ 
she has returned ! she is given to our prayers ! " 
Her old father and mother lifted her from the floor, 
and having placed her on a bed, and applied such 
simple restoratives as the cottage afforded, Marga- 
ret opened her languid eyes upon them. Forgive- 
ness was asked, and cheerfully accorded. She was 



222 PROSE. 

suffering from hunger and fatigue; she had travelled 
nearly all the way on foot, save now and then 
some kind-hearted wagoner had given her a lift of 
a few miles ; and after she had partaken of some 
slight refreshment, they left her to gain needful rest. 

Now that she was alone, memory commenced 
her work ; she was in her own little bedroom — 
her head was on the same pillow which her fair 
cheek had pressed nightly for many a year in the 
bright season of her girlhood; everything was as 
she had left it — nothing had changed save herself 
— and what a change was there ! Not five years 
had elapsed since she had gone forth from that very 
room, attired in bridal splendor, dreaming of the 
gayeties of the world, and longing to partake them ; 
she had gone forth proud, beautiful, and buoyant 
in spirit — and she had returned with branded name, 
faded beauty, blighted hopes, and a broken heart ! 
From thoughts like these little rest was to be ob- 
tained ; and Margaret awoke in the morning, after 
a short and unrefreshing sleep, exhausted, and ill 
at ease in both body and mind. 

Great was the excitement in the village when it 
was known that Margaret Leslie had returned to 
her home. Some cavilled, some sneered, and a few 
benevolent ones pitied the poor creature ; but of all 
the parish, none went to the cottage, save the old 
minister and his kind-hearted and gentle wife. 
Before they arrived there, however, Margaret was 
delirious ; exposure, fatigue and grief, had brought 
on a fever. The minister's wife \^fent to her house, 
and soon returned with medicines for the sufferer. 



PROSE. 223 

who continued through the day to grow worse. 
She wandered constantly, but her talk was all of 
her youthful days, and her village companions; 
for a week she remained in this state, and her aged 
parents watched in agonized suspense, fearing to 
lose their restored treasure. At length the fever 
left her, and though very feeble, it was thought she 
might eventually recover. The visits of the good 
minister were frequent ; he administered comfort 
and consolation to the poor penitent, and bade her 
look for mercy and pardon to Him who has said, 
" Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as 
white as snow ! " and whose dear Son breathed the 
tender invitation, " Come unto me, ye who are 
weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."' 
,Six weeks had elapsed since Margaret's return; 
long weeks, passed on the bed of sickness and suf- 
fering, which, combined with grief and mental 
agony, had terminated in a rapid decline. One 
evening, after a long and interesting conversation 
with the worthy pastor, she had sunk back ex- 
hausted, and lay for some time so absorbed in 
thought that her parents, who sat by her bedside, 
fancied her asleep ; when suddenly she exclaimed, 
— '' Mother, it will be five years to-morrow since 
that miserable day when I left you a gay and 
smiling bride ! " 

" Hush, my child ! " said the poor old woman ; 
" do not speak of it ! " 

''Nay, dear mother, it will not harm me now; 
though, since my* return, I have never but once 
alluded to the events of the last few years, it has 



224 PROSE. 

often been the subject of my thoughts. Attracted 
by his weahh and station, I married a man I did 
not love, and soon despised and hated ; I possessed 
everything my heart had desired, yet 1 was un- 
happy. Then I met with one who was all my 
imagination had pictured, and I loved him with an 
overwhelming passion; — when I left my husband 
for my lover, I fancied I was changing a life of 
misery for one of unmixed happiness ; but I have 
found, alas ! that there is no rest for the guilty, no 
pang like that of remorse ! and oh ! I bless God, 
that, sinful and miserable as I was, he had mercy 
upon me, and gave me strength to break from the 
fetters that bound me, and to return, humble and 
contrite, to the home of my childhood ; and that the 
hands of my earliest guardians shall at length close 
my eyes ! And now, my dear parents, this night I 
would be alone, to hold communion with my own 
soul, and my God!'' 

They left her, according to her request; and the 
next morning, when they entered her little bed- 
room, they found her apparently sleeping, calm and 
tranquil. They went to her bedside, and called 
her name, but she answered not; they opened the 
little casement, and the sun, which had risen clear 
and bright on the anniversary of her wedding-day, 
shone full on the beautiful face of the dead! The 
event was soon known, and the minister and his 
wife came speedily to the cottage, to pray with and 
comfort the bereaved. For the departed one they 
had no fears ; for, though deep had been her sin, 
yet great had been her suiferings, and sincere her 



PROSE. • 225 

penitence ; and the friends who now knelt around 
that humble couch felt that God had accepted her 
repentance and her tears, and that Margaret Leslie 
was at rest ! 



, KATE VINCENT. 

" A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food ; — 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles." 

Wordsworth. 

What a host of associations are sometimes con- 
jured up in the mind by the repetition of a simple 
name ! Days long past, and scenes almost for- 
gotten, are suddenl}^ recalled, in all their pristine 
freshness ; faces that we have not seen for years 
look kindly upon us, friendly eyes smile, and old, 
familiar voices greet us with words of affection; 
and thoughts and feelings long hidden in the secret 
cells of memory are awakened as by some magic 
incantation ! Such were the sensations I experi- 
enced, a short time since, by casually hearing the 
name of ''Kate !" Every one has some favorite 
appellation, endeared by pleasant remembrances 
and associations, from Byron down to the least 
imaginative; and I confess that I ''have a passion 
for the name of" Kate ; simple, graceful, loving, 
kind-hearted, merry Kate ! I was in the midst of 
a crowded assembly; but the instant that name 
was pronounced, the power of memory was con- 
fessed, and I was far away in the green, sunny 
home of my childhood. I saw the moss-covered 
19 



226 . PROSE. 

roof of the little low-browed cottage where I was 
born, — the old, wide-spreading sycamore, which 
grew beside the door, and threw its branches over 
the humble dwelling, beneath whose pleasant shade 
I had sat so often ; there was the brook that went 
singing merrily by, where we nsed to fish for the 
bright little minnows; — and the old well, with its 
"iron-bound bucket," — a necessary feature, in my 
eye at least, to the beauty of a country landscape ; 
— and the green where we used to dance, and the 
little school -house. I heard the music of the birds, 
and the ringing of merry voices. Blessed scenes 
of my childhood ! will ye never return, save in 
dreams, to my yearning heart ? 

In a beautiful glen, in a retired part of our vil- 
lage, stood a little white cottage, half embowered 
in roses and honeysuckle, which, from its romantic 
situation, had gained the name of the Bower. It 
had been fitted up in the most elegant manner by 
a gentleman of wealth and taste, as a summer 
residence for himself and his young bride, — a fair 
flower whom he had transplanted from the sunny 
South to grace his home, — but she soon withered 
in the uncongenial climate, and in a few months 
he laid her in an early grave ! The bereaved hus- 
band could not bear to remain longer among the 
scenes from which she had fled ; and he soon left 
the village, with orders to his agent to dispose of 
the property. About this time, my mother received 
a letter from an old and valued friend, who had 
been her school-mate ; but, having married an 
officer in the army, and accompanied him to his 



PROSE. 227 

distant station, the friends had not met for several 
^'■ears. She now wrote, stating the death of her 
husband, and her intention of returning, with her 
only child, to New England ; she expressed a wish 
to reside near ii;y mother, as the only friend of 
former days with whom she had maintained a cor- 
respondence, and requested her to look out a suit- 
able residence. The Bower Cottage appeared just 
the thing to suit her; and an answer was accord- 
ingly returned, acquainting her with the situation 
of the place and other particulars, and requesting 
an immediate visit. I was then a warm-hearted 
child of ten years, and with all the eagerness of 
that age, I watched for their arrival. At length the 
day came when they might be expected. I rose 
early, and ransacked my little garden for the 
brightest flowers to ornament the mantel-piece; 
my dolls were dressed and re-dressed, and my 
baby-house set in order a dozen times. The stage 
arrived in the village about two o'clock ; but our 
cottage standing on a little elevation, I could see it 
nearly half an hour before it arrived. On the day 
in question, I was posted at the window which 
commanded a view of the road, and oh ! how 
anxiously I looked for it ! At length it came lum- 
bering up the hill, and I strained my eyes to descry 
some one among the passengers who could answer 
the idea I had formed of our expected visiters. 
Soon the rumbling of wheels came nearer and 
nearer, and in a few minutes the stage stopped at 
our gate ; the steps were let down, and a tall, fine- 
looking woman descended, followed by a little girl, 



228 PROSE. 

apparently about my age, both dressed in deep 
mourning. Mrs. Vincent and my mother met with 
all the warmth of friendship ; and when the first 
greetings were over, she turned to me, and, pre- 
senting her little daughter, said, "I hope you and 
my little Kate will soon be good friends.^' 

The Bower was purchased as a residence for 
them, and after a most delightful visit to us, the 
Vincents became its inmates ; and from that time, 
Kate and myself were playmates and school-fel- 
lows, and as we grew to womanhood, our childish 
intimacy ripened into a deep and lasting friendship. 
How shall I describe Kate Vincent 1 Strangers 
called her plain ; but we who knew and loved her 
thought far otherwise. True, her skin was brown ; 
but then her cheek glowed with the richest hues 
of health and exercise. And what though her feat- 
ures did set all symmetry and regularity at defi- 
ance ? — who heeded that her mouth was too wide, 
when they saw the bright smile dimpling her face, 
and displaying teeth of dazzling whiteness, and lips 
like ripe strawberries'? or heard her clear, merry 
laugh ringing in their ears like music 1 Her nose 
was a little turned up ; but that, in my opinion, 
only served to heighten the arch expression which 
so well became her ; and then her thick, jetty curls, 
which fell in rich profusion round her face and 
neck ; and her long, large, oriental black eyes, 
sparkling and dancing in their own light ; and her 
short, trim figure, a little embonpoint, yet light, 
graceful, and youthful as a Hebe ; and her whole 
face lit up with the affection of her own warm and 



PROSE. 229 

generous heart ! O ! to me Kate Vincent looked 
very lovely ! She laid siege to all hearts ; and 
rich and poor, old and young, everybody loved the 
gay, good-humored girl. She was her mother's 
idol, and the pet and favorite of the whole village ; 
and old blind Susan used to say that ''it did her 
heart good to hear her footsteps and her merry 
laugh echoing in her humble dwelling." Add to 
these an intelligent and well-cultivated mind, and 
you have some idea of one whose name can always 
bring a thrill of delight to my heart. 

More than seven years of quiet happiness had 
glided by, since the Yincents first came to our vil- 
lage; and each succeeding season served to rivet 
still closer the bonds of intimacy between the 
two families. The merry Kate was fast verging 
towards her seventeenth year, yet seemed not a 
whit steadier than at twelve; and, save the changes 
that are always taking place in every community, 
everything remained much the same as when they 
first came to the Bower. One afternoon, about 
sunset, I called at the cottage for Kate to accom- 
pany me on a walk we had been projecting ; and 
on entering the little parlor, found her with an 
open letter in her hand, and, to my utter surprise 
and dismay, in tears ! 

" What is the matter, dear Kate ?" I exclaimed. 

'' Nothing, only I was very foolish, and a little 
agitated, by reading this letter ; it is my father's 
writing. But come," she continued, '' let us go 
out, and on the way I will tell you the cause of 
my tears." 

19# 



230 PROSE. 

"We accordingly set out, and I will endeavor to 
"tell the tale as it was told to me.'' 

Captain Vincent, the father of Kate, had an only 
sister, to whom he was very tenderly attached. 
She was many years his senior, and, their mother 
having died while he was very young, she had, 
in a great measure, supplied her place to him. 
Young Vincent had always shown a predilection 
for the army, and as soon as he arrived at a suit- 
able age, entered the military academy at West 
Point. About this time, his sister married a 
wealthy and distinguished southerner, and went 
to reside in Virginia. Mr. Jerauld, her husband, 
was a man of highly cultivated mind and fine 
talents, and passionately devoted to study. His 
intense application to it gradually undermined a 
constitution never very strong; and the high- 
hearted man was cut off in the prime of his days, 
leaving his wife and her brother executors of his 
princely fortune, and guardians to his only son, a 
boy of fifteen. The disconsolate wife survived 
her husband but a twelvemonth, and from that 
time Horace Jerauld became a member of his 
uncle's family, by whom he was regarded with 
all the affection of a son ; and his uncle seemed to 
endeavor, by his kindness to him, to repay, in 
some measure, the debt of gratitude and love he 
bore the boy's mother. The little Kate was at 
that time about four years old, and towards her 
Horace manifested all the tender affection of a 
brother, and, in return, was dearly loved by the 
little creature. 



PROSE. 231 

After a year passed thus, Horace entered the 
university, but all his vacations were spent with 
his beloved friends. At length his collegiate course 
was finished, and it v/as settled that, after a long 
visit at home, he should make the tour of Europe. 
But in the second week after his return, Captain 
Vincent was suddenly taken ill, and, after three 
weeks of agonizing suspense, his case was pro- 
nounced hopeless. Horace was his constant at- 
tendant, administering to his necessities, and even 
anticipating many wants of the invalid. When 
the sick man felt the hand of death upon him, he 
motioned his nephew to come nearer, and with 
difficulty addressed him. " I wished to speak to 
you, Horace, on a subject that is near my heart. 
For my pecuniary affairs I have no anxiety; I 
leave my family in comfortable, though not afflu- 
ent circumstances, and I know you will be an 
unfailing friend to them ; it is of my child I would 
speak, — of my darling little Kate, so soon to be 
left fatherless. I know that you regard each other 
with the affection of brother and sister, but it is 
my earnest wish, as it was that of your dear father 
and mother, Horace, that it should ripen into a 
warmer sentiment ; and, should neither of you 
conceive a passion for any other, may I hope that, 
when Kate arrives at a suitable age, my wishes 
shall be fulfilled?" 

" Most assuredly, dear uncle, as far as I am con- 
cerned ; but, should Kate then have other inclina- 
tions, be assured I will ever be to her a faithful 
friend and brother." 



232 PROSE. 

That night Captain Vincent died; and when the 
funeral was over, -and his affairs settled, Horace 
escorted his aunt and cousin, till they took the 
stage for our village, and then prepared for his 
voyage. 

" Since that time," said Kate, ''you know our 
history." 

'' But I do not yet understand why, if you love 
your cousin, you should have cause for tears in 
the prospect of being more nearly connected with 
him?" 

"I did love him," she replied, "in the days of 
my childhood; but I have only a faint recollection 
now of his personal appearance ; I have not seen 
him since I was nine years old, and he is twelve 
years my senior; I remember that he was very 
kind and pleasant, but nothing further. My mother 
has frequently received letters from him, and always 
spoke of him to me in the most affectionate man- 
ner ; but this afternoon she sent for me to come to 
her room, and told me all that I have now repeated 
to you, and put into my hands the letter which 
caused my tears. It was written, in a trembling 
hand, by my dear father, the day before his death, 
and contains a request similar to that he made of 
Horace, and telling me, in the most earnest lan- 
guage, how he had cherished the project of our 
union; and is it not strange, my wayward heart, 
which has always retained a warm affection for 
my cousin Horace, rebels at the idea of becoming 
his wife, unwooed?" 

I said all in my power to comfort her, and before 



PROSE. 233 

we returned to the house, her face was decked in 
smiles again, and her bright eyes sparlding through 
her tears. When we reached the Bower, we found 
Mrs. Vincent waiting for us at the door, and there 
was a deeper shade than usual on her brow ; which 
was instantly dispelled, however, when she saw 
the beaming face of her daughter. 

Three or four week^ after the above conversa- 
tion, Kate and myself were returning from a long 
ramble, when, just as we reached the very prettiest 
spot in the village, we encountered a tall, hand- 
some-looking man, leaning against a tree, and busily 
engaged in sketching the beautiful scene before 
him. As we approached, he raised his eyes, and 
fixed them for an instant upon Kate with a look of 
admiration ; then saluting us courteously, he re- 
sumed his employment. The handsome stranger 
furnished ample theme for conversation during the 
remainder of our walk ; and when we returned to 
the cottage, we mentioned the incident to Mrs. 
Yincent. 

"I wonder who he can be!" said Kate; *'he 
must be a late arrival." 

^'Ican satisfy your curiosity, I believe," said 
Mrs. V. '' The same gentleman, I presume, called 
here, a few minutes after you set out, and brought 
me letters from some southern friends. He is a Vir- 
ginian of good family, his name is Stanwood, and 
he is by profession an artist ; his appearance is very 
prepossessing, and my friends give him a high 
character. He is travelling in search of subjects for 
his pencil, and is so pleased with the romantic 



234 PROSE. 

beauty of our village, that he intends passing sev- 
eral weeks here ; and I propose gratifying the ardent 
wish you have always expressed to learn to draw, 
by allowing you to take lessons of him during his 
stay." 

Kate thanked her mother with sparkling eyes, 
and the next day the artist called again, and was 
introduced to his pupil. Never had teacher a more 
assiduous one, and for two or three weeks all went 
on smoothly. In the mean time, Stan wood became 
a constant visiter at the Bower. When not engaged 
with the lessons, he read with a deep, mellifluous 
voice from their favorite authors, (for somehow 
their tastes seemed to agree remarkably,) while 
Kate was busy with her needle ; or, if she sang, he 
accompanied her soft, bird-like notes with his flute, 
or his own richer tones ; and far oftener, the book, 
pencil and flute were thrown aside, for a long twi- 
light or moonlight ramble. At first, I used to join 
them in these walks, as I had been accustomed to 
do when I was Kate's chosen companion ; but after 
a while, I began to feel myself rather de tro'p^ or, 
in other words, that third person whose situation 
is so extremely awkward, when one cannot help 
feeling one's companions would prefer being tete--d- 
iete. At the commencement of these walks, the 
starry heavens, and the beautiful earth, had been 
the chief objects of admiration, and many long 
and animated conversations had passed concerning 
them; but if they now looked at the stars less, 
they gazed into each other's eyes more, and doubt- 
less fancied them far brighter; and at length I 



PROSE. 285 

betook myself to solitary rambles before 'Hhe dewy 
eve came on," and made my visits at the cottage 
at a time when I was more likely to find Kate at 
home. Now, all these moonlight walks, and senti- 
mental tete-d-tetes^ did not seem to me just the 
thing for an engaged young lady; but since her 
birth-night, Kate had never mentioned the subject, 
and I did not feel at liberty to introduce it ; the less, 
as Mrs. Yincent looked with apparent pleasure on 
the growing intimacy of her daughter with the 
artist, and heard with indifference, to say the least, 
the village gossip concerning it. As for the parties 
themselves, they appeared wholly engrossed with 
admiration of each other ; and if Stan wood had 
not made his young pupil a proficient in drawing, 
certain it is he had instructed her fully in a far 
more intricate and dangerous science ! Her life 
appeared to be one dream of delight ; and when I 
looked at her sparkling face, I trembled lest some 
unseen cloud should darken the brilliant heaven of 
her hopes. 

While affairs were in this state, I went to the 
city, to pass a fortnight with a friend. On the after- 
noon of my return home, as I was relating my 
adventures, and hearing the news of the village, 
a note was brought me from Kate Yincent. It 
contained a few lines, written in a trembling hand, 
and scarcely legible, and the surface of the paper 
was blistered in several places, as if by tears ; she 
wished me, if I were not too fatigued, to come to 
her immediately. I hastily donned my bonnet, and 
pondering on the strangeness of the summons, and 



236 PROSE. 

forming a thousand conjectures, I arrived at the 
Bower. Upon entering the parlor, I found it un- 
tenanted ; but happening to bethink me of a place 
where I should be likely to find her, I bent my 
steps thither. The apartment to which I allude 
was a small, pretty room, at the back of the cot- 
tage, where Kate and myself had passed many 
happy hours ; it was neatly fitted up, with books, 
pictures, and many pretty knick-knacks and sou- 
venirs. A folding window of glass opened upon a 
httle green terrace, which, in the spring and sum- 
mer, was completely enamelled with flowers. As 
I approached the door, I heard a low, convulsive 
sob ; and hastily opening it, I found Kate lying on 
the sofa, with her face covered by her hands, while 
the tears trickled through her fingers. She rose as 
I entered, and grasping my hand, exclaimed, ''It 
was very kind of you to come so soon — I am so 
very wretched ! " Half alarmed by her manner, I 
seated myself beside her, and soon drew from her 
the cause of her distress. Her mother had received 
another letter from Horace Jerauld, in which he. 
expressed his intention of coming to the village 
immediately, to renew the acquaintance of his 
promised bride, as she had now nearly reached 
the age when her father wished the connection to 
take place. He says, in his letter, continued Kate, 
" Tell my cousin that since I left her, her image has 
been my constant companion, and, joined with my 
dear uncle's last words to me, has guarded my 
heart against the charms of the loveliest women in 
Europe; and I am now about returning to my 



PROSE. 237 

native land, with a heart beating high to see the 
dear ones it contains. I presume Kate is aheady 
aware of her father's wishes, and I trust she will 
not refuse to ratify the promises she used to make 
me, when a little laughing gypsy of eight or nine 
years, always to love Cousin Horace." 

''And so I do, as a cotisin,'^ said Kate, ''but 
marry him, I cannot. What shall I do ? — counsel 
me, for I am too miserable to think for myself!" 

"And where is Stanwood?" 

"He has gone to the city, on business, and will 
return in a few days ; and how can I meet him 
with this intelligence 1 I will beg Horace, on my 
knees, to free me from this hatefnl engagement ; for 
how can I go to the altar with him, when my heart 
is all another's 1 " 

"And what does your mother say about it?" I 
inquired. 

" She wishes me to marry the man of my father's 
choice, and she says I cannot fail to be happy with 
one as generous and good as he is. O ! why did 
she place me in the way of one so fascinating as 
Stan wood, so every way worthy of love, and then 
urge me to a union I despise? " 

" But, perhaps, if your cousin be really as noble- 
hearted as your mother says, — and even you allow 
that all your recollections of him are pleasant, — he 
will scorn to avail himself of the influence of your 
father's wishes, when he knows your reluctance. 
When does he arrive? " 

" Very soon," she replied; " to-morrow, I fear." 

-" Then, I advise you, dear Kate, to see him; tell 
20 



238 PROSE. 

him your feelings towards him, and your love for 
another; and if he be what he is represented, he 
Avill gladly free you; if not, you know you are not 
compelled to marry him ; for your father expressly 
says, in his letter to you, and his request to your 
cousin, that he would not force your inclinations." 

Soon after, I took my leave, promising to see her 
the next day. On my way home, my mind was 
wholly engrossed by the troubles of my friend ; and 
I could not help reprobating the inconsistency and 
imprudence, to say the least, on the part of her 
mother, in allowing such unrestricted intimacy 
between Kate and her drawing-master, and show- 
ing such apparent pleasure in the growth of an 
attachment, which she might have foreseen, in 
throwing together two persons so admirably qual- 
ii&ed to please, and make each other's happiness. 

I was unable to fulfil my promise in the fore pai\ 
of the succeeding day; but in the course of the 
afternoon, I walked down to the cottage, and enter- 
ing the little room I have before mentioned, I found 
the mother and daughter together. Mrs. Vincent 
was calm, collected and dignified, as usual ; more 
at ease, I thought, than the occasion warranted, 
when the destiny of an only and darling child was 
about to be decided : but Kate appeared to be in a 
state of nervous agitation which was really painful 
to behold; and I could scarcely have recognized, in 
the sad, drooping figure .before me, the gay, laugh- 
ter-loving girl, whose smile was so full of sunshine. 
Her colorless face was half hidden in her thick 
ringlets ; her large black eyes had a wild, unnatural 



PROSE. 239 

stare, and her hands lay Hstlessly on her knees, in 
all the languor of despair. Mrs. Vincent soon left 
the room, and I ventured to ask if her cousin had 
arrived ? 

" No, but he will be here to-night, and I have 
tried hard to gain courage to meet him, and tell 
him all." 

While we were conversing, we heard the sound 
of approaching wheels, and in a few minutes it 
stopped at the door. Presently Mrs. Yincent entered 
the room. "Your cousin has arrived, Kate," said 
she, '' and wishes to see you. Do not tremble so, 
my love; only see him once, receive him as a friend, 
and if your heart still revolts from the idea of be- 
coming his wife, I will urge it no further. Shall I 
bring him hither? " 

Kate bent her head in assent, for she seemed to 
have lost the power of speech; and her mother 
60on returned, accompanied by the dreaded visiter. 
" Your Cousin Horace, my daughter," said Mrs. 
Vincent. 

''Dear Kate," said a well-known voice, and 
Kate lifted her head, and the next moment was 
clasped to the heart of her artist-lover, her betrothed 
husband, Horace Jerauld! Excess of joy is some- 
times as overpowering as grief, and a long swoon 
succeeded to this delightful recognition. 

"Is he so very hateful, dearest? " said Horace to 
his cousin, as they sat together in the little boudoir, 
the day after the denouement. 

" O Horace ! how could you deceive me so ? And 
you too, my dear mother, to turn such a traitor ! " 



240 , PROSE. 

Mrs. Vincent smiled, and Horace said, ''You 
must lay all the blame on me, Kate ; the scheme 
was my own. Your seventeenth birth-day was 
the period fixed on for making you acquainted with 
your father's wishes respecting us; and your mother 
wrote to me, with intelligence that she had told you 
all, and also with your reluctance to perform the 
engagement. I then laid the plan to introduce my- 
self to you in a different character, and endeavor- 
ing to win your love ; and if I succeeded, to make 
myself known. I accordingly came to the village, 
and sought an interview with my aunt ; I told her 
my scheme, and gained her interest, and the rest 
you know. And now, considering the finale, may I 
not hope for forgiveness?" 

Kate's answer is not upon record, but we pre- 
sume it was very favorable ; for the next Sabbath 
many smiling eyes were directed towards the Vin- 
cents' pew, when, at the close of morning service, 
the parish clerk published the ''banns of matrimony 
between Horace Jerauld, Esq., and Miss Catherine 
Vincent; " and some three weeks later, I Avas sum- 
moned to ofiiciate as bridesmaid at the marriage of 
my friend. It was a bright, beautiful September 
evening, and if there be aught in omens, it prog- 
nosticated for them a cloudless life. Shall I de- 
scribe the wedding '? and tell you that the bride 
looked lovely, as brides always do ; and how her 
face was alternately sufiused with blushes, and 
brightened with smiles and dimples ? — and how 
the bridegroom looked full of happiness, as a man 
might be supposed to look who was about to 



PROSE. 241 

receive the consummation of the hopes of years? — 
and how the mother's face wore an expression of 
chastened happiness, as she '' gave her to another's 
arms, her beautiful, her own"? — and how the 
guests wept during the short and simple, but solemn 
ceremony, which bound those two hearts in a tie 

" Which only love should weave, 
And only death can part " ? 

Or, shall I speak of the congratulations which fol- 
lowed, and the mirth that prevailed, till the group 
at length dispersed to their several homes ? 

The morrow came, and with it came the carriage 
that was to convey the newly married couple to 
their southern home. Mrs. Y. was not to accom- 
pany them, though Horace and Kate had both 
entreated it ; but she had become attached to the 
village and its inhabitants, and preferred remaining, 
with a promise of making long and frequent visits 
to her children. Mrs. Vincent was not a woman 
to give way to idle grief; and when they were gone, 
and the first freshness of sorrow at the parting had 
worn off, she set about her usual occupation. 
Frequent letters came from Kate, filled with expres- 
sions of happiness, and her fond mother was satis- 
fied. About this time, I went to reside in another 
pa,rt of the state ; and since her marriage, I have 
seen Kate but seldom. The last time I saw her, I 
was on a visit to my native village, and almost the 
first news I heard on my arrival was, that the 
Jeraulds were at the Bower. It was a summer 
afternoon, and I immediately walked down to the 



242 PROSE. 

cottage, and entered the well-known dwellings 
without the ceremony of knocking. I was led by 
the sound of voices to the little terrace-room ; the 
door stood a-jar, and unseen I looked in upon the 
group. At the window stood a lady, holding in 
her arms a beautiful child, while another, some two 
years older, stood by her side. The face was partly 
turned from me, and the once thick curls were 
gathered into rich braids ; but there was no mistak- 
ing that round, youthful figure, and that light, ring- 
ing laugh. The next moment I was in the room, 
and received a cordial greeting from my blooming 
friend and her handsome husband. 

''And here are my pets," said Kate, laughing, 
and presenting her beautiful children ; " and on 
pain of my displeasure, you must say they are very 
lovely." 

"You are the same as ever, Kate, I perceive." 

"Yes." 

V And you have never repented your marriage 
with that terrible cousin?" 

" Never ! " she replied, turning her beaming eyes 
on her husband. " O ! I am very happy ! " — and 
so I believe she is. I have never seen her since, 
but I occasionally hear from her, and her letters 
are always fraught with the affection of her own 
warm and generous spirit. Dear Kate ! whereso- 
ever thou art, may God ever bless and prosper thee 
and thine ! 



PROSE. 24*^ 



LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF WOMAN'S 

LIFE. 

OUR minister's family. 
Gentle reader ! I have so often and so elabo- 
rately described to you our little village, that I fear 
you will deem it but an idle repetition to descant 
once more upon its beauties; but had you ever 
visited Heathside, you would feel, as I do, that it 
were impossible to describe a tithe of its charms. 
Yet it is to none of the scenes I have before 
described that I would now draw your attention, 
but to yonder neat white cottage, a short distance 
below the Parsonage, on the opposite side. What 
a cool, shady appearance the thick, green foliage 
of those old apple-trees gives it ! and how prettily 
it stands, not far from the margin of that willow- 
fringed pond ! It is the residence of our minister's 
widow and her only daughter. There is one more 
feature in my landscape which must not be 
omitted; this is a small, humble edifice, standing 
midway in yon green lane, opposite the cottage, 
from which, during several hours of the day, issues 
the hum of voices ; and at intervals, groups of 
merry children may be seen playing and shouting 
before the- door, and giving unequivocal evidence 
that there the village school-mistress dispenses her 
discipline. What idea, fair reader, does that title 
conjure up in your mind? Does fancy present 
some old, wrinkled dame, with nicely plaited cap, 
spectacles on nose and ferule in hand; or the sharp, 
thin vi"sage and shrill voice of an antiquated 



244 PROSE. 

maiden ? What a portrait of sweet Julia Cardon- 
nel ! Picture to yourself a venerable damsel of 
nineteeUj tall, slender and graceful as a young wil- 
low, with a complexion fresh, yet delicate as the 
blended hues of the apple-blossom; exquisitely 
moulded features ; large, soft gray eyes, veiled by 
long, black, silken lashes; full, red lips; luxuriant 
hair, with " a single shade of chestnut on its gold ;" 
a low, sweet voice and silvery laugh, and you 
have a tolerable likeness of our village school- 
mistress. 

Julia Cardonnel is the orphan daughter of our 
former clergyman, and the only child that survives 
"to cheer and bless the desolate heart of his widow. 
Many of the villagers remember the day when the 
young minister brought to the parsonage his lovely 
bride, then in the first flush of jrouth and beauty. 
She was the youngest and favorite child of a doting 
old father, rich, and descended from a proud and 
ancient stock. Every indulgence that gold could 
purchase or affection bestow was lavished upon 
her, from her birth ; not a wish of her heart had 
ever been thwarted, and her fond father looked for- 
ward to the time when a brilliant marriage, suited 
to her merits, should place her among the noblest 
in the land. But unfortunately for this project, 
during a visit to some country relations, she 
became acquainted with Edward Cardonnel, a 
young student of divinity. She passed several 
weeks constantly in his society; and when, charmed 
with her beauty, and captivated by her sweetness 
and grace of manner, he offered to her acceptance 



PROSE. 245 

all he possessed, which was, in fact, little more 
than his heart and hand, she referred him to her 
father, without a doubt of the success of his suit. 
But though the loving and inexperienced maiden 
of sixteen never dreamed that Edward's want of 
fortune could be an obstacle to their wishes, her 
father had very different views of the subject ; and 
when, with a frank acknowledgment of his circum- 
stances, the young lover requested permission to 
address his mistress, he was formally dismissed, 
and forbidden the entree of the house. Unused to 
contradictions, and accustomed to have every wish 
gratified, it was not to be supposed that the fair 
Julia's mind was in a state to bear this disappoint- 
ment calmly. She wept, remonstrated, and finally 
fretted herself sick, but the old man's mind was far 
too firmly set upon- his own project, to be changed 
even by the tears of his darling child. 

Opposition, as is usually the case, only fostered 
the grande passion; and when Edward was settled 
over the society at Heathside, she braved the dis- 
pleasure of her father, resigned the luxuries and 
elegance to which she had been accustomed, and 
forsook the proud mansion of her ancestors, to 
share the humble fortunes of the devoted pastor of 
a simple but affectionate flock. The parsonage 
was soon transformed, by her tasteful hand, into a 
delightful abode : many-hued and beautiful flowers 
blossomed in the garden before the door ; the fra- 
grant honeysuckle climbed almost to the roof, and 
filled the air with its odor; and all within and 
without the house had an air of quiet and graceful 



246 PROSE. 

simplicity, far more attractive than the gorgeous 
splendor of prouder dwellings. When Edward 
Cardonnel introduced his young wife into his hum- 
ble abode, so different from the luxurious home of 
her childhood, he had not been wholly free from 
misgivings, lest her love should not be proof 
against the change, or lest its ardor should be 
damped by the prospect before her. But he had 
not fully estimated or understood her character ; 
hers was one of those leal spirits, which are never 
laggard in a labor of love. 

" Do not fear for me, dearest! " she said, in reply 
to an intimation that had escaped her husband's 
lips concerning her altered situation ; '' when I left 
my father's house to share your humbler fortunes, 
I knew well what was the task I undertook ; and I 
am ready to brave all that may fall to my lot, and 
perform to the best of my ability the duties that 
devolve upon me as the wife of a poor man, and 
the helpmeet of a servant of God ; and if I gain 
your approbation, Edward, my labor will be well 
repaid." 

She set about her new avocations with a zeal 
and earnestness which soon rendered the most 
complicated of her domestic duties easy and sim- 
ple, and, by enabling her to discharge them in less 
time, afforded her leisure to accompany her hus- 
band in his visits to the sick and poor among his 
flock, and to offer relief and comfort to all who 
needed. In the year succeeding their marriage, a 
new and endearing tie brought new cares and 
additional pleasures, and in the performance of her 



PROSE. 247 

conjugal, maternal and social duties, Mrs. Cardon- 
neFs happiness would have been complete, but for 
the remembrance of her aged father. She had 
written, immediately after her arrival at Heathside, 
and still later, asking his forgiveness for this, her 
only act of disobedience, and requesting his bene- 
diction on a marriage which lacked his blessing 
only to make its felicity perfect. But no answer 
was returned; the old man was inexorable, and 
had apparently cast out his youngest darling from 
her former place in his affections. 

Years passed, and three children, sweet house- 
hold treasures, now gladdened the parsonage. The 
eldest, a girl, inherited her mother's name and 
beauty, while her temper and disposition presented 
a beautiful combination of the characteristics of 
both parents ; for, though gifted by nature with the 
playful gayety and exuberant flow of spirits which 
had distinguished her mother's youth, yet, from 
being in a great measure the pupil and companion 
of her father, she had imbibed, as it were, with his 
studious habits, the thoughtful gentleness of his 
manners. The second child was a pale, sickly, 
delicate boy, deformed from his earliest infancy by 
disease, but richly gifted with meekness, and dis- 
playing a patient endurance of the most acute suf- 
fering, which might have put many an older per- 
son to the blush. Poor Herbert ! his was a weary 
lot, and yet how unmurmuringly he bore it ! sup- 
pressing the faintest groan, and trying to smile, 
even while his brow was knit and his lip quivering 
with sharp agony, lest his mother's heart should be 



248 PROSE. 

wrung by looking on the sufferings of her child. 
And if a sigh did sometimes escape him, as he sat 
in his chair by the window, or on the piazza before 
the door, on the long, bright summer days, and lis- 
tened to the merry shouts of the boys as they pur- 
sued their active amusements on the green within 
sight of the house, — • enjoyments from which he 
was debarred, — it was instantly checked, and 
taking up his book, he would thank God that he 
was not blind, and that so many blessings were 
yet left to him. There he would sit, day after 
day, reading, singing, or carving with his knife 
some curious toy for little Edward, a bright-eyed, 
sunny-haired, frolicsome child, the pet and play- 
thing of the whole family. 

Such was the group which, fifteen years after 
their marriage, twined round the hearts and blessed 
the dwelling of Edward and Julia Cardonnel ; and 
if, at times, when she looked upon her children, 
and recalled her own childhood and girlhood, she 
sighed for her father's forgiveness, and for his bles- 
sing upon them, yet time and his implacability 
had, in a great measure, worn off her sorrow for 
her only act of disobedience towards him. Her lot 
had been one of happiness, and when her daily 
duties had been cheerfully performed, she found 
time to impart to her daughter the elegant accom- 
plishments in which she in her youth had excelled, 
to cultivate the mind and heart of her afflicted 
boy, to amuse and instruct her youngest darling, 
and to join with her husband in improving the 
minds and ministering to the necessities of the 



PROSE. 249 

people of their charge. IdoUzed by her husband 
and children, beloved and respected by rich and 
poor, thus did Mrs. Cardonnel, the beauty and the 
belle, pursue the even tenor of her way. 

But happiness so perfect . and entire is not for 
this world, else should we never be willing to leave 
it. Surrounded by prosperity, and friends faithful 
and beloved, how- could we ever part from them 
even to gain heaven? for truly, ^^ivhere the treasure 
is, there ivill the heart be also.''' The dark wing of 
the angel of death overshadowed that peaceful 
dwelling, and the parents hung in agony over the 
shrouded form of their youngest born. There were 
sobs and tears at night, where in the morning had 
reigned joy and sunshine ; but it was not for those 
on the darkness of whose hearts the star of salva- 
tionYididL risen to mourn as "those who have no 
hope ; and they soon ceased to grieve that the fair 
flower which had budded in the garden of their 
hearts should blossom in deathless beauty on the 
banks of the pure River of Life ! Dear as the 
sweet child had been to all, by none Avas his loss 
so keenly felt as by the poor, deformed Herbert. 
They had various avocations and active employ- 
ments to wean their minds from sorrow ; but he, 
occupying the same seat day after day, and 
engaged in the same monotonous routine of amuse- 
ments, was constantly reminded of the lost one. 
His mothei: and Julia sought to divert his thoughts 
from such memories, by removing every book and 
plaything which had belonged to the child ; but he 
saw their design, and one day, looking up from a 
21 



250 PROSE. 

reverie into which he had fallen, and perceiving 
them intently regarding him, he said, '^ Do not 
think I am mourning for either Edward or myself; 
for I know that he is an angel now, in that bright, 
beautiful land of which, you have so often told me, 
and though he cannot come back hither, yet I shall 
soon go to him; and there, dearest mother," he 
continued, his eye brightening and his face irradi- 
ating, as he spoke, with holy joy, " there none shall 
scoff or mock at my infirmity, for God shall take 
away this poor, suffering, misshapen frame, and 
fashion it anew, like to Christ's glorious body; and 
there I shall meet Edward, and we shall walk 
hand in hand beside the crystal streams, and drink 
of the water of Life. O mother ! when I think of 
him in that blissful clime, and then of myself, a 
sick, suffering and useless being, I can scarcely 
bear to wait my time ! " 

Not long did the boy pant for the realization of 
his dreams. Edward passed away with the sum- 
mer flowers, and the frosts of October whitened the 
grave of Herbert Cardonnel. There were tearful 
eyes and quivering lips, when the little family met 
at the table, or around the fireside, in the long win- 
ter evenings succeeding their double bereavement; 
they missed that bright head with its golden curls, 
and that other pale, meek face, with its large, 
spiritual eyes and intellectual brow; and when 
the evening hymn was sung, they listened in vain 
for the two young vojces that were wont to pour 
forth their melody. 

That winter passed. Spring came and went, 



PROSE. 251 

and ere summer had thrown down her garland, a 
new sorrow had entered the hearts of the mother 
and daughter. Mr. Cardonnel's heahh was evi- 
dently failing; his untiring devotion to his paro- 
chial duties, combined with the grief and anxiety 
of the preceding months, had wrought fearful rav- 
ages on his naturally delicate constitution ; and his 
wife and Julia listened with fear and distress to his 
short and difficult respiration, and to the quick, 
dry cough which succeeded every eifort in speak- 
ing or reading; and his people, who were fondly 
attached to him, sighed and shook their heads, as 
they remarked his attenuated form and languid 
movements, his sharpened features, and the bright 
crimson spot which burnt on his hollow and 
sunken cheek. As the autumn approached, his 
symptoms grew even more alarming ; and his ter- 
rified family sent for a physician of the neighbor- 
ing city, who was celebrated for his skill in pul- 
monary complaints. He came, looked on the 
patient, heard the recital of his symptoms, and was 
silent. His benevolent heart shrunk from the ful- 
filment of the physician's hardest task. He looked 
round on the little group ; — his eyes turned from 
the countenance of the victim, calm, placid, and 
resigned, yet bearing the fatal signet of consumption, 
to the pale, sweet face of the wife, and the fresher 
loveliness of the daughter, both w^earing the same 
expression of hope faintly struggling with the sick- 
ening and terrible fear, and he felt he could not 
deceive them ; he could not raise hopes that would 
prove fallaciousj and yet how could he bear to 



252. PROSE. 

crush them with that dreadful intelhgence? Thrice 
he essayed to speak, but failed in the attempt; and 
just as he was making another and desperate effort, 
unable longer to endure the suspense, Mrs. Car- 
donnel grasped his hand, and with a voice that 
sounded strangely sharp and shrill to her hearers, 
she exclaimed, " O, do not say that he must die, — 
do not crush a heart already bruised and bleeding, 
• — he may yet be saved; medicine, and kind, de- 
voted attention, will soon restore him ! O, bid me 
not despair ! tell me that I may hope, and I will 
kneel and bless you ! " 

''Julia!" said the sick man; and in an instant 
his wife was at his side, — "calm yourself, my 
beloved, and listen with Christian resignation to 
the physician's sentence, be it of life or death. 
God has been very merciful to us, dearest ! Six- 
teen happy years we have passed together ; and if 
it be his will to separate us now, we must not 
murmur or repine. And now, doctor, we are ready 
to hear your decision." 

" I cannot deceive you, my friend ; nor would I, 
if I could. I will not deny that your case is dan- 
gerous ; but while there is life there is hope, and 
though your health can never be restored, your 
days may, I think, be prolonged by a sojourn in a 
more genial climate. I will not offer you medi- 
cines, for they would be useless ; but if I can aid 
you in anything relating to your journey, my ser- 
vices will be freely tendered;" and with a few 
soothing words, the kind-hearted physician took 
his departure. 



PROSE. 253 

Paint as was the hope he held out to her, Mrs. 
Cardonnel chmg to it with the greatest tenacity, 
and at length, by her earnest pleadings and moving 
entreaties, succeeded in gaining her husband's con- 
sent. The only obstacle now was the state of 
their finances. Small as was the salary of a coun- 
try parson, frugality and economy had enabled 
them to lay by yearly a portion, to be reserved for 
sickness, or any particular exigence ; and to what 
better purpose could it be devoted than to the 
recovery of that dear one's health? To this sum 
a few of the wealthier part of his parishioners added 
sufiicient to defray the expenses ; and having made 
arrangements to supply the pulpit during his ab- 
sence, the Cardonnels bade adieu to their home, 
and ere the winter opened, were comfortably set- 
tled in pleasant lodgings in one of the sunny vales 
of France. To this place they had been recom- 
mended by the worthy doctor, who had furnished 
them with a letter of introduction to a young phy- 
sician, a friend of his oAvn, who was sojourning 
there for the benefit of an invalid sister's health. 
As soon, therefore, as they Avere settled in their 
new abode, the letter was despatched to Dr. May- 
nard's lodgings, and the ensuing day the doctor 
and his sister called on the new comers. The visit 
was one of mutual pleasure ; the Maynards came 
to mark their respect for their old friend by show- 
ing every courtesy and attention to his friends, and 
in like manner did the Cardonnels receive them ; 
but ere an hour had passed, all felt that a nearer 
affinity than that of country existed between them 
21^ 



254 PROSE. 

— the tie of kindred minds ; and had a stranger 
looked in upon them, as they sat there on that first 
visit, he would have deemed them old friends 
meeting after a long separation. They had a 
common topic of interest, too, in their solicitude 
concerning the beloved ones who had brought them 
thus in contact ; and they spoke hopefully and 
cheerfully of the happy change the climate was to 
effect. For some time their hopes seemed likely to 
be realized. The warm, genial air, wholesome 
exercise and pleasant society, seemed to produce 
a favorable effect upon the feeble frames of the 
invalids, especially that of Mr. Cardonnel. His step 
grew firmer, his cough abated, and he began to 
talk hopefully of returning home; he already 
looked forward to the happy meeting with his 
friendly people, and spoke of the satisfaction he 
should experience in seeing once more his own 
pretty church, his beloved home, and the little 
grave-yard where slept the loved and lost. But as 
the time fixed for their departure approached, his 
worst symptoms returned. Dr. Maynard would 
have recommended his travelling still further south, 
but the sick man had neither strength nor spirits to 
attempt it ; ancf at length, in a violent paroxysm of 
coughing, he burst a blood-vessel, and all knew 
that his case was hopeless. Ere the day to which 
he had fondly looked forward arrived, he slept 
with the thousands of foreigners who have found a 
final resting-place in the precincts oiPere la Chaise. 
With sorrowing hearts the widow and her 
daughter prepared for their return ; and the day 



PEosE. 255 

after their embarkation, Dr. Maynard and his sis- 
ter were on their passage to Italy. 

Every Sabbath since their minister's departure, 
had prayers been offered in the village church of 
Heathside for the recovery of his health, and his 
speedy restoration to his people. The letters that 
were received encouraged their hopes, and they 
were gladly anticipating his return, when the 
tidings of his death reached them. There was sor- 
row in every dwelling when the news was spread 
through the village, and fervent petitions arose 
from every heart, that night, that the bereavement 
be sanctified not to them only, but more especially 
to the afflicted ones who in a far land mourned the 
loss of their dearest earthly friend. And when in 
due time the travellers arrived, each sought, by 
affectionate sympathy and attentive kindness to 
them, to manifest their love and respect for him 
who was gone forever. 

When the first freshness of the sorrowful sensa- 
tions called forth by visiting the "old familiar 
places " had in some measure worn off, a new con- 
sideration presented itself to Julia's mind; and this 
was, their future mode of life, and the means by 
which that living was to be obtained. The first 
step to be taken was to provide a residence ; for 
though, since their return, they had continued 
inmates of the Parsonage, it was no longer home^ 
and the minister who was to be settled in Mr. Car- 
donnel's place had a large family, for whose accom- 
modation the dwelling would barely suffice. Sev- 
eral of their friends had proffered to the mother 



256 PROSE. 

and daughter a home in their own families ; but 
they were far too proud to be dependent; and 
blest with youth, health and a good education, 
Julia had no doubt of her own ability to gain a 
subsistence for both. But how was this to be 
eifected, and in what manner were her talents to 
be brought into action? This question did Julia 
ask herself continually ; but, unable to answer it, 
she at length resolved to apply to her friends 
for advice, and abide by their decision. But so 
various were their opinions, and so 2/?2decided 
their decisions, that the client was as much at a 
loss as before. One recommended her to enter a 
genteel family as a private governess; but that 
would separate her from her mother, and they 
were all that were left to each other, and must not 
be parted. Another advised her to remove to the 
city, and there profit by her knowledge of the 
French idiom, and the perfect accent she had 
acquired during her residence in France, by giving 
lessons in the language. This appeared the more 
feasible plan of the two ; but, on mentioning it to 
her mother, Mrs. Cardonnel expressed such a dread 
of removing to the city, and such an anxious 
desire to dwell in the place where her happiest 
days had been passed, that Julia at once renounced 
the idea, and endeavored to procure employment 
at fine and ornamental needle-v/ork, an accom- 
plishment in which she excelled. But having 
soon discovered that the most untiling industry 
would l-arely afford them the necessaries of 
life, and as each family contrived to do ttieir 



PROSE. 257 

own plain sewing, she was utterly at a loss to 
what pursuit to turn her attention, and was almost 
in despair at the failure of her projects, when 
the death of the old dame under whose super- 
intendence ''the ideas" of the young villagers 
had for many years been "taught to shoot," left 
vacant the post of village school-mistress ; and at a 
meeting of the principal men of the village, Avho 
constituted the '' Committee," it was proposed by 
one of them to request the minister's daughter to 
undertake the charge of the school. Accordingly, 
with some hesitation and many apologies for offer- 
ing her a situation so far below her merits and 
accomplishments, the proposition was made; and 
having been thankfully accepted, Miss Cardonnel 
was soon established in her new vocation. Hum- 
ble though it be, it suffices for all the simple wants 
of the mother and daughter, and the poor suppliant 
is never turned, unrelieved, from their door. There, 
in yonder neat cottage, they dwell together, satis- 
fied and happy in each other's affections ; and any 
bright summer morning, you may see them work- 
ing industriously before school-hours in their little 
garden, or after sunset taking their accustomed 
walk down the lane, and never failing to rest 
a while in the church-yard beside the graves of 
those dear children; and speaking tearfully, but 
with no vain sorrow or regret, of him whose body 
rests in a far distant land, but whose spirit, they 
fondly trust, is looking down from its bright abode 
upon those whom on earth he loved so tenderly. 
Julia entered upon her new labors with a cheer- 



258 FEOSE. 

ful spirit, and an earnest desire to promote the 
interests of her young charge ; and eminently suc- 
cessful she has been. Parents no longer complain 
of their children's reluctance to go to school ; for the 
first sound of the bell is anticipated by groups of 
rosy, smiling children, watching for their teacher, 
and hailing her appearance with unfeigned delight. 
Perfect order and decorum reign in the school, 
though the pupils are no longer terrified into sub- 
mission by the harsh voice and frown of the mis- 
tress, or awed by the ominous sound of the ponder- 
ous ferule; but a more powerful sentiment than 
fear influences her scholars ; and hardy and reck- 
less indeed would that urchin be, who would bar- 
ter the sweet smile and kindly commendation of 
Miss Cardonnel, for the unsatisfying pleasures of 
disobedience. It is the golden age of our village 
school; and should any question the beauty and 
efficacy of Julia's system of instruction and disci- 
pline, they have only to follow her in one of her 
frequent visits to the dwellings of her pupils, and 
witness the joy her presence creates, — to see the 
group of little ones cling around her, and hear their 
earnest strivings for the seat of honor on her knee, 
— to feel that her rule is that of gentleness, and 
that the secret of her sway is — Love ! In short, I 
think I have fairly made out that Julia Cardonnel 
is a nonpareil — the pattern for daughters, and the 
paragon of village school-mistresses. But, alack 
and alas ! '■'■How blessings brighten^ as they take 
their flight f^ It is now two years since Julia 
first took charge of the village school, and we had 



PROSE. 259 

fondly hoped, from her indifference to all the beaux 
within the scope of whose admiration she came, 
that, despite her youth, beauty, and other fascina- 
tions, she would remain a fixed star in the orbit 
where she moved so gracefully and well. But one 
fine afternoon, some six weeks ago, a chaise was 
seen entering our village, drawn by a beautiful bay 
horse. Ah, we little thought what mischief it was 
bringing us; — not that there was anything peculiar 
about the vehicle, for though very handsome, it 
was plain and unornamented, neither did the 
horse Avear any particular expression which could 
lead us to think he meditated any invasion of our 
rights and privileges ; and for the inmates of the 
chaise, one was a fine-looking young man of seven 
or eight and twenty, and the other a fair, delicate 
girl, of eighteen ; and the whole cortege^ horse, car- 
riage and individuals, might have passed through 
the place untouched by the breath of suspicion, 
had not the gentleman reined in his steed at the 
door of the inn, and inquired for the residence of 
Mrs. Cardonnel. This unlucky question set the 
full tide of rumor afloat; nor was the curiosity 
of the villagers at all allayed by witnessing the 
cordial welcome with which the widow and her 
daughter greeted the strangers, by their long stay 
at the cottage, or by the inability of all to discover 
who they were, and whence they came. For 
more than three weeks did this mystery remain 
unsolved. Every afternoon, about the time fixed 
for dismissing the village school, that identical 
horse and chaise might be seen at the gate of the 



260 PROSE. ' 

cottage, sometimes bringing the lady and gentle- 
man, bat oftener the gentleman alone; and very 
often Julia and the mysterious stranger were 
detected walking tete-d-tete^ and always deeply 
engaged in conversation. But at length that sea- 
son of suspense came to an end. The young girl 
who assisted Mrs. Oardonnel in her domestic 
duties gave to a friend, as a. great secret, — imme- 
diately circulated, of course, — the information that 
the visiters were Dr. Maynard, a physician in the 
neighboring city, and his sister; that they were 
travelling in France at the same time with the 
Cardonnels, and were with them at the time of 
their bereavement. But the satisfaction with 
which this intelligence was received was quickly 
embittered by the additional news, namely, that 
Miss Julia was going to give up her school^ to be 
married to the handsome young doctor ! At first, 
we tried to shut our eyes and ears against the 
unpleasant conviction; but truth, however disa- 
greeable, will force itself upon us; and the fact is 
now self-evident, and beyond the shadow of a 
doubt, that we are about to lose our pretty school- 
mistress. A lady recommended by Dr. Maynard 
is to take, but, alas ! we fear not to supply, her 
place. Yarious preparations, ominous of a wed- 
ding, are going busily forward at the cottage ; and 
did we need further proof, for two successive Sab- 
baths has our church-door borne ample testimony 
to the matrimonial intentions of George Maynard 
and sweet Julia Oardonnel. The widow is to 
reside with her daughter in the city ; but a portion, 



PROSE. 261 

at least, of every summer, they are to spend at 
Heathside ; and here I would not forget to mention, 
that time and misfortune have softened the anger 
of Mrs. Cardonnel's father, that he is forgiving and 
forgiven, and that his daughter and her child have 
been joyfully welcomed to the old man's heart and 
home. 

And now, what further have I to say, unless I 
inform you that the bay horse still pertinaciously 
persists in finding his way to the little white cot- 
tage ; that the bustle of preparation is nearly over ; 
and that we are daily expecting to hear our old 
church bell chime merrily in honor of the marriage 
of the young Dr. Maynard and our gentle and 
beautiful Minister's Daughter. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

" Lead us not into temptation." 

I. 

It was the first of May, a bright, beautiful, 
balmy morning, and, as the first gray streaks of 
dawn tinted the horizon, from almost every dwell- 
ing in the little village of Lynmere might be seen 
issuing youths and maidens in holiday attire, who 
bent their way through the different lanes and cop- 
pices, and in a short time reappeared ; and soon a 
merry and smiling group was assembled on the 
green, open space, with a large old oak tree in the 
centre, to which the villagers had given the name 
of the '■'■ Common." Each of the party had gath- 
ered a supply of the early spring flowers, a portion 
22 



262 PROSE. 

of which were formed into houquets by the young 
men, while others were twined into wreaths by 
the fairy fingers of the girls. Ever and anon an 
anxious glance was cast towards one of the by- 
paths leading to the outskirts of the village, as if 
they were expecting to see some one approach 
from thence. In a short time their wishes were 
answered, and a joyous welcome greeted the 
appearance of a bright, blooming maiden, appar- 
ently about sixteen years of age, attired in a simple 
white dress, and a straw hat trimmed with pale 
pink ribbon, the simplicity of her dress heightening 
the efiect of her rich, glowing and sparkling beauty. 
Her arrival, it would seem, had been the signal 
for commencing the business of their little election; 
and, judging from the admiring and affectionate 
glances cast upon her, it was not difficult to guess 
upon whom the choice would fall. The vote in 
her favor was unanimous; and in a few minutes, 
the floral crown, composed of dewy violets, hare- 
bells and lily of the valley, interspersed with a few 
pink and blue hyacinths, the gift of a fair amateur 
in flowers, was entwined amid the luxuriant raven 
curls of the beautiful May Queen. 

As the first beams of the rising sun gilded the 
slender spire of Lynmere church, the little proces- 
sion, bearing garlands, bouquets and May-poles, 
and headed by their queen, with her flower- 
wreathed sceptre and crown, the rays of sunlight 
glittering on the dew-drops, and making them flash 
and sparkle like diamonds on her brow, took up 
their line of march through the village streets. 



PROSE. 263 

where they were cheered with unaffected dehght 
by the inhabitants, young and old. At length they 
turned off from the main road, and pursued their 
way down an elm-shaded avenue, till they came in 
sight of a neat, pretty dwelling, with a light piazza 
in front, ascended by a few steps from the garden, 
which was already rife with the fragrance of haw- 
thorn and apple blossom. As they approached the 
gate, an old man, who had been standing on the 
piazza, came forward to meet them ; and had even 
a stranger seen the took of devoted affection with 
which he greeted the Ic-vely May Queen, it would 
have needed no second glance to tell him the rela- 
tion in which they stood. The cordial invitation 
of the proprietor of the mansion to enter was cheer- 
fully accepted, and the neat and skilful hands of 
Marian Shaw soon prepared a simple but plentiful 
repast, enlivened by the mirthful conversation, 
which was rather aided than checked by their 
worthy host, and received additional zest from the 
loveliness of his daughter; for the beauty of Marian 
Shaw, the Woodland Rose, was the admiration and 
toast of the country for miles around. 

When the meal was concluded, the party once 
more resumed their route ; and while they are pur- 
suing it, we will endeavor to learn something of 
the parentage and history of the fair May Queen. 
At five and forty the father of Marian Shaw was 
still unmarried, and quite undesirous of changing 
his single estate; and mothers and daughters, tired 
of the vain attempts to captivate him, had at length 
deserted the old bachelor, to open their battery of 
charms asrainst some easier to be won citadel. It 



264 PROSE. 

was then that accident made Mr. Shaw acquainted 
with a beautiful Italian orphan, who occupied the 
post of nursery governess to the children of an old 
friend whom he was visiting. Therese Cellini had 
emigrated to America with her father, whose con- 
stitution, formed and nurtured amid the genial airs 
of the sweet South, was unable to withstand the 
inclemency of our more rigorous climate ; and a 
few months after their arrival he died, bequeathing 
his daughter to the tender mercies of a race of 
strangers in a foreign land. After many fruitless 
attempts to gain a livelihcod, Therese had been 
rescued from want and misery by the gentleman 
in whose family she now resided. Her brilliant 
beauty and graceful manners attracted the atten- 
tion of Mr. Shaw; her unprotected, orphan state 
called forth his sympathies ; and the interest thus 
excited soon ripened into a deep and earnest affec- 
tion. Though no longer in the hey-day of youth, 
he still retained much of its romance ; and, with 
his handsome person, lively talents, gentlemanly 
deportment, and benevolence and kindliness of 
heart, he could scarcely fail to wake a correspond- 
ing emotion in the object of his attachment. Ere 
his friends and acquaintances had time to wonder, 
the friendless orphan, Therese, was the wife of the 
ci-devant bachelor. Mr. Shaw was not rich, but 
the small fortune which he inherited from his 
father had been carefully used ; and now that 
another was to share it with him, he doubted not 
that the same prudent management woiild make 
his modest competence sufficient for all their wants. 



PROSE. 265 

The pretty house before mentioned was their 
bridal residence, and there did they look forward, 
through the long vista of future years, to a life of 
cloudless happiness. But their dreams were not 
destined to be realized. One short year of perfect 
enjoyment was alone allotted to them, and the 
same hour made Mr. Shaw a joyful father and a 
disconsolate widower. 

Ere poor Therese had been a week an inmate 
of her narrow dwelling, the officious gossips and 
busybodies of the village had prophesied that, 
before a year elapsed, Woodland Cottage would 
have another mistress ; and perhaps it might have 
been so, had he been a younger man. But could 
they who thus lightly spoke have looked in upon 
that darkened chamber, where, by the bedside on 
which she had died, and from which her dark, 
loving eyes had gazed with unquenchable fond- 
ness upon him, in her last struggle, he knelt in 
utter prostration of spirit, — could they have seen 
the shreds of gray that mingled profusely among 
the bright brown locks, Avhich, a few days before, 
had been unshadowed, and heard the sobs wrung 
by his agony from the very soul of that strong 
man, — they might, perhaps, have felt and known 
that his was the first and only love of a man too 
old to change his affections easily. 

From that hour of intense anguish, when the 

low-breathed farewell of her who was dearer than 

life had wrung every nerve and fibre of his heart, 

and the faint, feeble wail of his child had awoke 

22^ 



266 PROSE. 

a fount of new and delicious feeling, had he vowed 
to devote his future life to the little pledge of their 
love. Faithfully and well did he execute his task ; 
andj with a gentleness almost womanly, he watched 
over her and administered to her wants. All the 
wealth of affection which he had lavished on her 
who was gone now gushed forth in deep and fer- 
vent tenderness for the little Marian, — a sentiment 
increased, if that were possible, by her resemblance 
to her dead mother. But while he watched, with 
admiring love, the rapidly developing beauty of 
her person, he never for a moment neglected to 
cultivate the better qualities of mind and heart ; 
and the Woodland Rose grew up, pure and gentle, 
simple and affectionate, and reverencing her father 
with an exclusive affection, bordering almost on 
idolatry. Though motherless, she had never yet 
realized the full extent of her loss ; for though her 
attention had been first of all directed to the por- 
trait of her young mother, and her beauty, virtues 
and goodness, had been the theme of many a long 
and well-remembered conversation with her father, 
yet so devoted and watchful had been his tender- 
ness and care, that Marian could not imagine a 
relation more endearing. Even as he doted upon 
her, so did she regard him ; and this trait, combined 
with her sweetness of disposition, attracted all 
hearts towards her, even more than did her exceed- 
ing loveliness. 

Never was title more aptly bestowed than when 
Marian Shaw was styled the "Woodland Rose." 
She inherited from her mother the brilliant com- 



PROSE. 267 

plexion of blended olive and carnation which dis- 
tinguishes the women of southern climes; she had 
the same large black eyes, full of dreamy languor 
when at rest, and when excited, sparkling, passion- 
ate and more eloquent than many words; abun- 
dant jetty lashes, shining hair and delicately pen- 
cilled eyebrows of the same ebon hue ; finely cut 
features, and red, luscious lips; and, withal, a form 
of perfect symmetry, and a softness of manner that 
communicated itself in some measure to all who 
came within the sphere of her influence. Such 
was Marian Shaw, at the time she was introduced 
to the reader as the Queen of May. Alas ! that 
day was destined to be one of great and eventful 
importance to her ! The May-day festivities were 
usually concluded by a dance in a shady grove, 
belonging to a wealthy farmer; and thither the pro- 
cession, having completed their route, adjourned to 
rest and refresh themselves. In the course of the 
afternoon, they were joined by a party from the 
village, including a few strangers, who wished to 
look on, and perhaps share their merriment. 
Among these, were two young men from a distant 
city, of genteel appearance, and one of them 
extremely handsome, and prepossessing in manner. 
Marian's beauty instantly attracted his attention, 
and profiting by the familiarity attendant upon 
social parties of that kind, he entered into conver- 
sation with her ; and when the signal was given, led 
her in triumph to the head of the old-fashioned 
contra dance, to the evident chagrin and envy of 
numerous rustic competitors. 



268 pnosE. 

When, at length, the faUmg dews and the deep- 
ening shades of twiUght warned the gay party to 
disperse, and Charles Hamilton bade the fair May 
Queen adieu at the gate of her father's dwelling, 
it was evident that he had made considerable im- 
pression on the fancy, at least, if not on the heart, 
of the guileless and simple-minded girl. Week 
after week went by ; the elder of the two strangers 
departed, yet his handsome and more fascinating 
companion still lingered, a frequent visiter at Wood- 
land Cottage, and the devoted admirer of fair 
Marian Shaw. At first her father had appeared to 
enjoy the society of young Hamilton ; but after a 
while his manner towards him, apparently without 
cause, became cold and constrained, till finally h^ 
expressed to Marian his disapprobation of the young 
man's principles, and decidedly, though affection- 
ately, forbade her to receive his visits. But kindly 
and tenderly as they were said, his words fell like 
an ice-bolt on the ardent and passionate tempera- 
ment of the daughter of an Italian mother ; and, 
for the first time in her life, Marian murmured at 
her father's will. When, at evening, she stole forth 
to keep her tryst with Charles, and, with sobs and 
tears, made known her father's edict, and listened 
with trustful fondness to the eloquent protestations 
of undying love from lips whose truth she could 
not question, it was little wonder that, overpowered 
by his arguments and entreaties, and influenced 
probably by her own passionate attachment, she 
should at length yield to his request, to receive his 
visits clandestinely, after her father had retired to 



PROSE. 269 

rest ; for Mr. Shaw was a steadfast adherent to the 
old maxim, "Early to bed, and early to rise." 

It is not to be supposed that Marian glided at 
once, and without a struggle, into the path of dis- 
obedience and error ; many a sleepless night, and 
many a bitter pang, did it cost her; but, as is usu- 
ally the case, the further she progressed, the easier 
became the task of deception. 

II. 

It was the latter part of August, a clear and 
cloudless night, and the moon was pouring down a 
flood of silver radiance on the pretty village of Lyn- 
mere. On that evening, in a small, but light and 
airy apartment of Woodland Cottage, opening by 
a glass door into the garden, the moonlight streamed 
in, and cast its mellow rays upon the figure of a 
youthful maiden. Her small head, with its bright 
raven curls, was bowed upon her hands, and 
though no sound escaped her, it was evident, from 
the convulsive movements of her frame, that she 
was weeping ; while on the table beside her lay a 
straw hat, and a large, dark bundle. Soon a slight 
rustling was heard among the bushes in the gar- 
den, and a tall, manly figure stepped noiselessly 
into the room, and in an instant was at the side of 
the weeping girl. 

"Nay, my sweet Woodland Rose, this must not 
be," said her nocturnal visiter. " Why should you 
weep, when you are about to unite your destiny 
with that of one whom you love, and who adores 
you so devotedly 1 " 



270 PROSE. 

'^ But my father ! " sobbed the girl ; " Charles, I 
cannot forsake my poor, old, gray-haired father ! It 
would break his heart, if his only child, whom he 
has doted on so fondly, and cherished so tenderly, 
should leave him alone in his age. How often has 
he told me how my mother, on her death-bed, gave 
me into his hands, and prayed that I might live to 
become a blessing and comfort to him in his declin- 
ing years ! And oh, Charles ! when he blessed me 
to-night, and kissed my brow, and spoke of my 
dutiful affection towards him, I felt ready to sink 
beneath the weight of guilt and falsehood that 
oppressed me ! I could have fallen at his feet, and, 
confessing all my sins, have begged his forgiveness ; 
but I thought of you, and hushed my throbbing 
heart, and left his presence knowing that I had 
received his benediction for the last time ! But that 
must not be — indeed, dearest Charles, I cannot go ! 
I must not leave my father ! " And with a fresh 
burst of sorrow, the girl clung to the arm of her 
dangerous companion, and looked up into his face 
with such pleading and earnest eloquence, that, for 
a moment, a shadow of self-reproach passed over 
his handsome features ; but it quickly disappeared, 
and by soft, yet passionate terms of endearment, he 
sought to hush the "still, small voice," which was 
vainly essaying to save the deluded maiden. But 
the love of a stranger triumphed over the long-tried 
and devoted affection of years — over the tender- 
ness which had watched and shielded her mother- 
less infancy, and the watchful care which had 
prayed that she might resist temptation. With the 



PROSE. 271 

tears not yet dried from the soft cheek, and still 
glistening on the long, silken lashes, and firmly sup- 
ported by Charles Hamilton, the half-fainting girl 
was borne through the garden, the gate of which 
opened into a by-path, leading to the high road of 
the village ; and entering the carriage he had pro- 
cured, Marian Shaw was an alien and wanderer 
from the happy home of her childhood. 

The widowed and now doubly bereaved old 
man arose, the next morning, unconscious of the 
anguish that awaited him, cheerful and happy ; in 
his orisons, his beloved child was earliest and fond- 
est remembered, and he descended to the breakfast- 
room with a blessing on his lips. He Avas a little 
disappointed at not finding her, as usual, ready to 
greet him ; and fearing she must be ill, he returned 
up stairs, and was about to tap at her bed-room 
door, but finding it ajar, he entered. The bed was 
smooth, as though it had not been disturbed the 
preceding night, and on the snowy pillow lay a 
sealed note. He opened it, and read — ''My 
beloved father ! Even while 1 write to you thus, I 
am about to forsake you, to break from all the ties 
that bind me to you and home, to follow the for- 
tunes of one of whom I know little more than that 
he is handsome and fascinating, and that I love 
him more than life! I have struggled, dearest 
father, to break from this spell ; but it is impossible, 
and before I go, I have a confession to make to you. 
When first I became acquainted with Charles 
Hamilton, you appeared to like him, and encour- 
aged our intimacy; and when, at length, you for- 



272 PROSE. 

bade^ me to notice him, or to receive his visits, I 
had no longer the power or the will to obey you. 
For many weeks I have met him, and he has been 
here, unknown to you ; he has urged me, with an 
eloquence I cannot withstand, to fly with him ; and 
though 'I know the right, I yet the wrong pursue,' 
for something unseen, yet mighty, seems hurrying 
me on to ruin. Farewell, dearest father! — do not 
curse me, for the sake of my dead mother; and 
even yet your last benediction is ringing in the ears 
of your ungrateful Maria^n." 

The letter dropt silently from his hands. He did 
not curse her ; but he buried his face in the pillow, 
where she might never again lay her head in the 
stainless purity of girlhood, and that gray -haired 
old man Avept like a child ; for the idol of his heart, 
the hope of his age, had forsaken him. 

III. 
Just ere the dawn of that morning was break- 
ing, a carriage stopped at the gate of a little 
demesne, in a pretty village, many miles from 
Lynmere. It was far from the public road, and as 
secluded as if it had been in a wilderness, while 
the cottage itself was almost hidden by a massive 
grape-vine, which threw its graceful tendrils over 
the roof, and hung its rich, tempting clusters almost 
within the muslin-curtained windows. Thither 
did Charles Hamilton bring the beautiful and 
deluded victim, whom he had lured from the path 
of duty, and from the home of purity and happi- 
ness ; and for many months even the reproachful 



PROSE. 273 

voice of conscience, whispering of the grief of the 
deserted old man, was drowned in the overwhelm- 
ing flood of that all-engrossing passion for her 
betrayer. But as time wore on, Charles' absences 
became more frequent and prolonged, and Marian 
was left for days, and even weeks, alone. It was 
then she began to dwell oftener and more painfully 
on her degraded situation, and her ungrateful de- 
sertion of her father. But not till she became her- 
self a parent did she fully realize the anguish she 
must have caused him ; and even then, she could 
scarcely compare her own newly awakened feel- 
ings with those of an aged man, who had reared 
tenderly an only child from helpless infancy to- 
blooming and beautiful womanhood, only to have 
his dearest affections outraged and betrayed. Her 
situation, too, was now becoming painful in the 
extreme; her feelings, rendered acutely sensitive 
by her peculiar circumstances, were continually 
wounded by the scornful look and ill-suppressed 
sneer with which the matrons of the village passed 
the unwed ded mother. They who should have 
sought out the isolated young creature, and by 
kindly words and gentle counsel endeavored to win 
her back to the path of virtue ; for the villagers had 
long since surmised, and had not cared to keep their 
conjectures to themselves, that Marian was not the 
wife of the man with whom she resided. Often 
did the poor girl turn away with tears of real agony, 
when the young maidens of her own age carefully 
avoided her, for they were still pure, and her touch 

might contaminate them. ; often did she long to say 
23 



274 PROSE. 

to them, " Once / was pure, and lovely and belovedj 
even as ye now are ; take heed while ye stand, lest 
ye too fall, and become even the despised and guilty 
thing that I am now ! " As the winter approached, 
her nervous sensitiveness increased; and she begged 
so earnestly to be removed from her present resi- 
dence, that he who had brought her to shame and 
disgrace could not resist her supplications. 

" Take me from this place, dear Charles ! carry 
me anywhere, so that thei?' dark, scornful eyes can 
no longer make me shrink and tremble, and I care 
not what trials and privations may await me ! " 

Ere the autumn blasts had ceased their mourn- 
ful requiem among the leafless trees, Marian was? 
established in a narrow street, leading from one of 
the great thoroughfares in the wilderness of New 
York city. What a change for the child of nature ! 
Who would have recognized, in the pale-cheeked, 
slender young mother, who sat in that stived 
thoughluxuriously furnished apartment, singing, in 
melancholy tones, to her child the gay songs of her 
happier days, the-light hearted and beautiful May 
Queen, the pride of the village of Lynmere?. For 
the want of fresh air, and the clear sunshine in 
which she had revelled from her infancy, added to 
the sorrow and remorse that preyed upon her mind, 
had soon faded the bloom of the bright Woodland 
Rose. Still, Marian murmured not ; and she would 
have been content, and have striven to be happy, 
could she have felt that the love for which she had 
sacrificed all still remained unchanged, intense and 



PROSE. 275 

devoted as of old. But she could not shut her eyes 
dgainst the conviction that Charles Hamilton was 
no longer the ardent lover, who, with soft words, 
and passionate eloquence, had won the heart of the 
gentle May Q,ueen. Yet, there were times when 
all his former tenderness would return ; and while 
his arms encircled her and her child, the poor girl 
would chide herself for having ever doubted his 
affection, and would look confidently forward to 
the time when he would repair in a measure the 
wrongs he had done them. 

Since they had resided in New York, Charles 
had not only attended many convivial meetings, but 
had frequently invited his friends to his house ; and 
it was during one of the brighter intervals in his 
intercourse with Marian, that he requested her to 
superintend the preparations for a small party who 
were to dine with him. It was at a late hour that 
evening, when Marian, having watched by her child 
till it sunk into a profound slumber, and feeling no 
disposition to sleep herself, stole quietly down stairs 
to procure a book. The library joined the dining- 
room, and the revellers were too busy with their 
wine to have heard her, even had her step been 
heavier; but, as she passed into the room, the fold- 
ing doors were not wholly closed, and she heard 
her own name repeated by an unknown voice. 
Startled, she paused, and in another moment the 
same ribald tones proposed as a toast, — "Hamil- 
ton's pretty lady-bird, the fair Marian Shaw ! " 
Then followed the coarse jest, the bitter sneer ; and 
the name and history of the once pure and lovely 



276 PROSE. 

May Queen were bandied about, and made the theme 
of jibe and jeer, by a set of unprincipled and half 
intoxicated men. And he sat there, with a smile 
on his lips, — those lips whose wily accents had lured 
from duty, innocence, and respectability, — he sat 
there, and heard it all, yet uttered no word of 
rebuke, and lifted not his hand to fell to the earth 
the slanderer of his victim, — Ae, the beloved of 
her girlhood, the destroyer of her peace, the father 
of her child ! Alas ! she had not the claim of the 
insulted but virtuous wife, — she could not claim 
redress, outraged and insulted as she was ; she was 
his mistress, — the shunned, despised and degraded; 
the mother of his child, but not the wife of his 
bosom ! 

With a noiseless step, she glided back to her own 
apartment, and threw herself, in the wild abandon- 
ment of grief, beside her sleeping child. It was the 
embodiment of guilt and innocence. That beauti- 
ful young creature, kneeling with clenched hands 
and dishevelled tresses, the veins in her smooth 
forehead swollen and distended, and her large 
black eyes flashing with terrible brilliancy, while 
beside her lay the sinless one who was to receive 
the heritage of a mother^ s sin and shame. One 
little dimpled hand lay beneath the fair and deli- 
cate cheek, over which floated a single glossy, 
golden ringlet escaped from its confinement ; and a 
sweet smile, so like that which had won poor Mari- 
an's heart, parted the soft red lips, and disclosed 
the pearly treasures within. As the heart-stricken 
young mother gazed on the calm, tranquil beauty 



PROSE. 277 

of her darling, by degrees that strange brightness 
left her eyes, that bitter smile forsook her lips, and 
amid her gushing tears went up the voice of deep, 
earnest prayer. Since the night she left her father's 
roof, Marian had never dared to pray ; for ever, 
when she attempted it, the image of the venerable 
old man would rise before her, and the memory of 
her disobedience and ingratitude would check the 
devotional impulse ; but now she prayed, even as 
when, in the days of her childhood, at that father's 
knee, she had lisped, ^^ Lead us not into temptation ;''^ 
and she arose from her knees, calmed and strength- 
ened. 

When, some two hours later, his guests having 
departed. Charles Hamilton entered Marian's apart- 
ment, she was apparently sleeping ; but as the par- 
tially shaded light from the lamp fell on her face, 
he saw that the dark lashes were gemmed with 
tears, and that their traces were yet left on the soft, 
crimson cheek. For an instant, an expression of 
remorse and pity came over his countenance, and 
bending, he pressed his lips to hers, and murmured, 
'' My poor Marian ! " then going towards a table, he 
took a slip of paper from it, and after pencilling a 
few lines, he laid it on. her pillow, and left the apart- 
ment. Ah ! that caress, those few kind words, had 
almost overturned Marian's resolutions; she had 
been tempted . to look once more on that beloved 
face, and to forgive and forget all ; ^but the scene 
she had that night witnessed returned to her mind. 
A single glance through the small aperture left by 
the doors had been sufficient to reveal, in the scoffer 
23^ 



278 PROSE. 

at her name, the form and features of him who had 
accompanied Hamilton on the day of their first 
meeting. With that image came up the well- 
remembered May-day party, and all that had fol- 
lowed that ill-starred acquaintance ; and the tempt- 
ation was resisted. Marian listened till the last 
sound of Charles' footsteps had died away, and 
then, with trembling hands, she took the slip of 
paper, and carried it to the night-lamp. It con- 
tained but a few words, merely informing her that 
he was to start, in half an hour, to join a party who 
were to be absent several days. 
* " It is well," said Marian ; " surely Providence is 
favoring my plans, and aiding me to keep my reso- 
lution." 

In a short time Hamilton again descended the 
stairs, and as the hall-door closed after him, Marian 
felt that they were parted forever. She had deter- 
mined to leave his house, and to remove, with her 
child, to an humble but more honorable home, trust- 
ing to gain a subsistence by her industry for her- 
self and her helpless charge. In all that great city, 
she had neither friend nor acquaintance ; for remem- 
bering but too well all she had endured in her for- 
mer place of abode, she had shrunk with real terror 
from the coldness and scorn that would follow a 
knowledge of her situation. But in her daily 
walks she had often noticed, at the window of a 
very humble dwelling, in the suburbs of the city, the 
pale, meek face of a woman considerably advanced 
in years, and had been struck with its resigned 
expression. The woman had evidently noticed her 



PROSE. 279 

earnest gaze, and had latterly returned it with a 
benevolent smile. With her, though not a word 
had passed between them, Marian felt almost 
acquainted ; and to her she resolved to go, and after 
making her acquainted with all her history, to ask 
her counsel and advice. Her breakfast was hastily 
despatched, and having dressed her child, she put 
on her bonnet; and proceeded to the dwelling of 
Mrs. Lewis. Her light tap at the door was 
answered by the same meek-faced woman, and 
Marian was kindly invited to enter. The benevo- 
lent looks of the poor woman soon opened the way 
for her visiter's recital; it was listened to with true 
and earnest sympathy, and the friendless girl felt 
that she was no longer alone. 

"You are indeed young, to have seen misfor- 
tune," said the kind-hearted Mrs. Lewis, as she 
wiped the tears from her eyes ; '' yet I rejoice that 
you have at length resisted temptation, and broken 
the tie that bound you. You asked me for advice ; 
and 1 can only say. Return to your father ! — to the 
dear old man, who was father and mother both to 
you in your helpless childhood, and who now 
requires from you those attentions which none other 
can repay. Go to him, my dear ; confess to him 
your folly and sin, and tell him all that you have 
suffered. He will forgive you, I am sure he will, 
and restore you to the place you have forfeited. 
Alas ! / too had once a daughter, as young and 
almost as beautiful as yourself; tenderly did I watch 
over her, for she was my all ; yet she left me for a 
stranger, — forsook the quiet of our humble, but 



280 PROSE. 

happy home, to lead a gayer, but less respectable life, 
with him who had so basely deluded her. She left 
me, but she never returned. I never saw her again 
till she lay in her coffin ; — on her death-bed she had 
yearned for my forgiveness, but I was not there to 
bestow it. O, how gladly would I have received 
her again, and have forgiven all ! But it was not 
permitted me to do so. She has left me alone in the 
world; — would you that your gray-haired father 
should be left thus? Return, then, to him, ere it is 
too late, lest death shall have sealed those lips ere 
they have uttered the blessed word '•''forgive.^'' The 
fountain of love is not dried up in his heart ; the 
weeds which absence and neglect have allowed to 
grow^ there may have choked its source, but the 
careful hand of repentant affection will soon pluck 
them thence, and the full tide will gush forth freely 
and clear as ever.'^ 

Thus comforted, strengthened and advised, Mari- 
an set out on her return home, to make some little 
arrangements, ere she quitted it forever. A small 
bundle of necessary clothijig was hastily tied 
together, and she vv^as about to leave the room^ 
when a glance at her ungloved hand reminded her 
of something which, in her haste, she had nearly 
forgotten. In the earlier days of their love, Charles 
had delighted to adorn, and render even more 
brilliant, Marian's sparkling beauty; and he had 
lavished upon her many rare and costly ornaments. 
She sighed as she drew the sparkling gems from 
her fingers, for each had a little history of its own 
to her heart. One only she retained — a small pearl 



PROSE. 281 

ring, which he had given her on the night when 
she forsook all else to cleave to him; that was 
sacred to the misguided girl, even as is the mar- 
riage-token to the lawfully wedded wife ; and she 
could not return it, for to her it would have seemed 
like divorcing their spirits. Her watch, brooch 
and bracelets, were placed carefully in their cases, 
and but one more ornament remained. Suspended 
from her neck by a small, exquisitely wrought 
chain of gold, was Charles' miniature ; and as she 
gazed upon it, the deep blue eyes seemed to look 
up at her with the same passionate fondness as in 
the days of yore, and that smile seemed beaming 
upon her which had lured her confiding heart to 
ruin. That, too, she could not leave. He had hung 
it around her neck in the hour when first her 
young ear drank in the intoxicating words of love ; 
she had worn it ever since ; and disengaging it from 
the beautiful chain, she placed that in the casket, 
and attaching the picture to a black ribbon, she 
returned it to its former place. Her last and hard- 
est trial yet remained ; — she could not go without 
bidding him adieu, — him, who for three years had 
been all in all to her, and whom she was never to 
look on more. Many a sheet did she commence 
and throw aside ; and at length a few simple but 
touching lines told him of the events of the preced- 
ing night, of her resolution to see him no more, 
truly and devotedly as she yet loved him ; and with 
one gush of tenderness, one outpouring of sorrow, 
she bade him farewell ! The letter was left on his 
dressing-table, and taking her bundle beneath her 



282 PROSE. 

cloakj — for it was now winter, — she cast one lin- 
gering look around, and returned to the abode of 
her humble friend. 

IV. 

It was early in the evening preceding the good 
old festival of New England, Thanksgiving, when 
the stage-coach drove up to the little hotel of 
Lynmere village, and discharged its passengers. 
Among those whom the driver assisted to alight, 
was a female closely enveloped in a cloak and 
hood, and with a child in her arms. She had 
entered the stage at the half-way house of their 
route, and appeared weary and exhausted. As 
the driver handed her a small bundle, her only 
luggage, he kindly offered to assist her in carrying 
her child to the place of her destination ; but she 
firmly, though gently, declined his escort, saying 
that she had not much further to go, and the child 
was not heavy; and taking her bundle, she pro- 
ceeded. While she is thoughtfully treading the 
well-known street, and shrinking from the notice 
of the passers-by, we will take a rapid glance at 
the neat, comfortable parlor of Woodland Cottage. 
The fire blazed brightly on the ample and well- 
swept hearth, the curtains were closely drawn, 
and the light from the shaded lamp fell on the 
silver locks, and lofty, furrowed brow of an aged 
man. His evening meal stood untasted beside him, 
and it was evident that his thoughts were not upon 
the contents of the newspaper in his hands. Ah! to 
him the morrow was no anticipated day of fes- 
tivity or joy ; ~— the memories of the past forbade it 



PROSE. 283 

His thoughts were with the long since dead, — with 
the ungrateful and guilty living, — the wife of his 
bosom, and the daughter of his old age ! Poor old 
man ! he was sadly changed since we saw him 
last ; the hale, hearty look had departed, his brow 
and cheek had many additional wrinkles, and the 
lines of grief and care were even more visible than 
those of time. He was startled from his reverie by 
a low, gentle tap at the door, and in answer to his 
mild invitation, a female entered, leading a child 
some two years old ; and ere his perplexity and 
surprise would allow him to speak, the cloak 
dropped from her shoulders, the hood was thrown 
back, and Marian Shaw, pale and wan, yet beauti- 
ful still, sank at the old man's feet, unable to utter 
aught save the single word '^Father!" But that 
word was enough. It had touched with a master 
hand the right chord in his heart; the long-sealed 
fountain was stirred, and the very depths of his 
soul were thrilled by the imploring glance of those 
upraised, tearful eyes, and by the soft, pleading 
tone of that voice, whose music had been wont to 
fill with joy and gladness his now lonely dwelling. 
He did not speak, — words were too impotent to 
express his emotions, — but as he raised the kneel- 
ing girl, and clasping her fondly to his breast, min- 
gled his sobs and tears with hers, the Magdalen 
felt that she was forgiven ! 

V. 

Have patience with me, dear reader, yet a little 
longer, and I will bring my story to a close. I 



284 PROSE. 

have another scene to present ; but in order to do 
thiSj you must give imagination a broad sweep, 
and suppose seven years to have intervened since 
Marian Shaw was first introduced to you, as 
the pure-hearted, simple-minded and lovely May 
Queen, and three or four since we left her, a 
returned prodigal, a forgiven penitent, in her 
father's arms. It was the sunset hour; the air 
was unusually mild and balmy for the season, and 
on the .piazza in front of Woodland Cottage two 
persons were leisurely and silently promenading. 
One was a tall, fine-looking man, who had well- 
nigh numbered his threescore years and ten. His 
long, silver locks were parted smoothly on his 
broad, high brow ; the ruddy hue of health was on 
his cheek, and his eye was bright with happiness. 
He leaned on the arm of a graceful young female, 
and his features were lighted up with a smile of 
afiectionate admiration, as he gazed on the sweet 
chastened loveliness of her face. They had paced 
up and down the length of the piazza several 
times, when he at length exclaimed, ''Why are 
you so silent and sad, Marian ? For half an hour 
you have not opened your lips, or raised your 
sweet eyes from the ground. I remember me of a 
time when a gorgeous sunset like this would have 
called forth the most rapturous exclamations of 
delight from you ; and when the trees, flowers and 
singing birds, furnished you with abundant sources 
of amusement and conversation." 

" Very true, dear father, but those were the 
blessed days of my innocence and purity ; days to 



PROSE. 285 

which I look back with such longing and heartfelt 
yearnings ; that happy season ere my feet became 
entangled in the snares of the tempter. Yet I have 
been highly favored, and I sometimes feel as if my 
sufferings had not been sufficient to expiate my sin. 
I scarcely dared hope that even you^ my dear 
father, would receive me, gentle, kind and forgiv- 
ing as you were ; and yet, not only have I and my 
little one been taken to your bosom and fondly 
cherished, but even my old friends and acquaint- 
ances, whom I so dreaded to meet, have never 
wounded my feelings by one scornful word or look, 
nor cast one slur upon my child. Yery kind have 
all been to me, and ungrateful indeed should I be, 
did I not deeply feel and understand it all, and 
pray nightly and daily for their happiness and wel- 
fare. But when you spoke of my sadness, father, 
you forgot that it is the first of May, and that with 
that day many mournful thoughts and recollections 
are connected ; my wasted youth, blighted hopes, 
and the dishonor that attaches, not to myself alone, 
but to my pure, innocent little Dora." 

''Do not afiiict yourself thus, Marian, or grieve 
so deeply over the events of the past. Has not 
your deportment since your return been such as to 
call forth the admiration and esteem of all who 
know you ? And I am sure there is not one in the 
village who does not cordially respect and love you; 
and for our sweet little Dora, is she not the joy 
of our hearts, and the pride of the whole village 1 
She is a lovely creature; and yet I cannot help 
wishing her face were like your own." 
24 



286 , PROSE. 

'' She is very like her father; and I often think I 
love her even better for that very resemblance. 
Poor Charles ! shall I never see him again ? Was 
that parting indeed forever? Has the grave claimed 
him, in all the pride of his manly beauty, or has he 
forgotten the loving and simple girl whose life was 
boundless in his love?" 

" Do you, then, still love Charles Hamilton, 
Marian? Were he now to return, willing to repair, 
as far as he can, your wrongs, would you freely 
and willingly become his wife?" 

'^ Would I not? Most willingly! nay, rather, 
most gladly would I. I should deem it my duty 
to Dora and myself; and even setting that aside, I 
love him as deeply and truly now, as when, six 
years ago, I sacrificed all else for him. Surely, 
dear father, you would not have me act other- 
wise?" 

"Not if it would secure your happiness, dearest; 
but see, the juvenile May-party has dispersed,. and 
here comes my darling." And as he spoke, a 
beautiful child bounded along the gravel- walk, and 
the next moment her arms were entwined alter- 
nately round the necks of her mother and grand- 
father. She was, indeed, as Marian said, very like 
her father. She had the same fair, delicate com- 
plexion, deep blue eyes, and regular features, 
which would have rendered his beauty, perfect as 
it was, almost elfeminate, but for his dark, abun- 
dant hair, and tall, manly figure ; and as the child 
stood there, with her straw hat swinging in her 
hands, her bright golden curls, wreathed with 



PROSE. 287 

flowers, floating on her plump white shoulders, 
and an arch smile lighting up her whole face, 

" She seemed too fair and bright a thing 
To dwell mid sin and suffering." 

They had continued their walk but a fe-vT mo- 
ments, when a lad from the village approached, 
and placed a letter in Marian's hands. She 
started and turned pale as she glanced at the 
superscription, and leaving her father and child 
together, she entered the house. She bent her 
steps towards a small apartment, of which we 
have spoken in the earlier part of our narrative, 
— the same which Witnessed the struggle between 
filial love and ardent passion, — and throwing her- 
self into a chair, she opened the letter and read : — • 

"Mine own Marian: — My best beloved, though bitterly 
wronged and betrayed, do not cast this from you till you have 
perused it, and attentively considered what I have to say. 
Marian, I am here once more — here on the spot where, seven 
years ago, I first saw you in all the radiance of your young 
beauty. I have seen you now, in your subdued and chastened, 
but not faded loveliness, and I could have fallen at your feet 
and asked your forgiveness ; and more than this, Marian, I 
have seen one whom my heart told me was my child — mine ! 
I have looked on ye both, when ye saw me not, and my soul 
yearned towards ye. Marian, deeply and bitterly have I sinned 
against you ; but could you have known my sufferings from that 
day when I returned home and found it deserted and desolate — 
could you have witnessed my agony and remorse when I read 
the few lines you left, to tell me that we were parted forever 
— could you have seen me, as I lay for long weeks after- 
wards on the bed of sickness and suffering, with none but the 
hands of hirelings to minister to me, and calling even in my 



288 PROSE. 

delirium upon your name — you would have pitied me, even 
while you felt that it was but a just retribution for my sins. 
During my recovery, I had ample time for reflection and 
repentance ; and I went forth once more into the sunshine, a 
wiser and better man. I made vigilant inquiries, and ascer- 
tained that you had returned to your father, and had been, as I 
doubted not you would be, joyfully received ; but I determined 
not to seek you, or endeavor to see you, till I was enabled 
to do so conscientiously and honorabl5^ From that time, no 
inducements could lead me back to my former pursuits. I was 
proof against the flatteries and entreaties, as well as the sneers 
and mockery, of my old companions. I forswore the wine-cup 
and the dice-box, and resolved to commence a new course of 
life. Just then I received an offer to go out to India as super- 
cargo of a richly laden vessel, and I thankfully accepted the 
offer. I have remained in that situation ever since, and by 
enterprise and industry I have gained, I think, enough to 
insure us a competence ; and now that I have told you all, will 
you forgive me, — will you be my wife, my own? We have 
loth suffered, Marian ! I read that to-day, in your pale cheek 
and saddened eyes ; and by the memory of our early love, and 
the hours we have passed together, — for the sake of our own 
peace, and the welfare of our child, — I implore you to accede 
to my wishes. I do not ask you again to forsake your father ; 
I must have his forgiveness also ; and if you plead for me and 
with me, he will not refuse. We will all live together, and I 
will emulate you in your attentions and devotion to him. 
Should your answer be yea, I am yours, heart and soul, for- 
ever ; if nay, — but I will not doubt. Write to me, Marian, and 
let your words be ministers of love and joy to 

"Charles Hamilton." 

For a few minutes Marian sat motionless, with 
the open letter in her hand, completely over- 
powered by the rush of emotions that swept over 
her; then sinking on her knees, she breathed forth, 
in low, fervent tones, that beautiful petition, Avhicli 



psosE. 289 

seems to comprise in its small limits the sum of 
all the wants of the human lieart — The Lord's 
Prayer. As she concluded, a rich, manly voice 
joined in the Amen, and starting to her feet, 
Marian again stood face to face with Hamilton. 

Reader ! would you know more of Marian ?• 
Go to Lynmere village, for there she is best 
known, loved, and appreciated. They will tell 
you of her untiring devotion to her aged father, of 
her idolizing love for her husband and child, of her 
kindness to the poor widow, Mrs. Lewis, who has 
long dwelt, in the sunshine of prosperity, in the 
home of her in whose misfortunes she sympathized, 
and whom she so kindly and wisely counselled. 
They will tell you of her beauty, gentleness and 
henevolence, but far more will they dwell upon 
her meekness, humility and Christian charity; 
for gently as she has been dealt by, Marian Ham- 
ilton has never for a moment forgotten her early 
temptation and transgression. In silence and in 
bitterness of spirit has she mourned over it, and her 
tears and prayers have not been unavailing; for she 
has come forth from the furnace of affliction, puri- 
fied and refined. Those whom she most wronged, 
her father and her child, have freely forgiven her ; 
and should others be inclined to bring forward and 
display on the page of her life the one blot which 
mars its purity, or deem that her sin was too easily 
palliated and overlooked, to them we would say, 
as did our blessed Lord to the accusers of old, 
'''Let him that is ivithout sin among you cast the 
first stone." 

2m 



290 PROSE. 



CAROLINE. 



" And then her face, so lovelj, yet so arch, — 
It haunts me still, though many years have fled, 
Like some wild melody." 



I WOULD fain ask your attentioiij dear reader, to 
a few passages from the romance of real life — a 
few inklings in the history of Caroline Temple, my 
early and well-beloved friend. Our acquaintance 
commenced at school, and during the years we 
remained there our friendship became closely ce- 
mented. Of her family, in those days, 1 knew lit- 
tle, save that her father was an idle, dissipatedlnan, 
who harassed and abused his wife, and was indif- 
ferent and cross to his child ; while her mother, a 
heart-sick, weary woman, wrought early and late, 
and feeble as she was, by her own single exertions 
maintained her family. Caroline was her idol, and 
I believe had she consulted her own wishes alone, 
she would never have allowed her to leave her 
side; but she shrunk from exposing her child to 
the contamination of her father's presence and 
example ; she trembled lest her pure ear should 
catch the sound of his blasphemous language, or 
her young eye be blasted with the sight of his 
beastliness; and she did not refuse her consent, 
when I used to plead for Caroline's company, dur- 
ing many hours, when we were free from school. 
Our intimacy continued unbroken, till we were 
nearly sixteen, when my parents removed from the 
city ; and for a considerable lapse of time I heard 



PROSE. 291 

nothing of her, till the news of her marriage reached 
me. But I am anticipating my story. 

It was a cold, dreary evening in the winter of 
183 — , and the noisy north-east wind rattled the 
loose sashes of the windows, in an old, ricketty 
building, which, sharing the fate of many similar 
domicils, has long since ceased to mar the beauty 
of our goodly city. The house was situated in a 
dirty, narrow lane, and tenanted by several fami- 
lies ; but it is with the inmates of a meanly fur- 
nished upper apartment that we have now to do. 
On a cot bed, in one corner of a miserable room, 
lay a pale, care-worn woman, whose features wore 
an expression of intense anguish; — can you won- 
der ? — for many long, weary months had she lain 
there, a wretched victim, writhing beneath the 
scourge of that most terrible disease that flesh is 
heir to ~ a cancer ! Her eyes were bent anxiously 
on a young maiden, who sat at a table drawn 
closely to the stove, busily sewing, by the light of a 
small, ill-fed lamp, on one of those coarse garments, 
by the manufacture of which, so many poor, lone 
females, in our populous city, earn a scanty sub- 
sistence. The girl was apparently ill at ease ; for 
though her eyes were bent upon her work, the tears 
stood upon her long lashes, her lip quivered, and 
heritrembling fingers were scarcely able to guide 
the needle. She started, and brushed the tears 
hastily from her eyes, as the feeble voice of the 
invalid was heard; — ^' Carry dear, I cannot bear 
to see you plodding so at that tedious work, to gain 
such a miserable pittance, and even that, you say, 



292 PROSE. ^ 

is about to be stopped ; it makes my heart ache to 
see you thus wasting your best days, toihng for 
and attending upon me. O, could I but have seen 
the fulfilment of my wishes — could you have 
brought your mind to regard the subject in a differ- 
ent light — you would not thus be wearing out your 
health and energies ! " 

"Do not urge me thus, I entreat you, dear mo- 
ther; it grieves me to give you pain, but in this 
affair I cannot comply with your wishes. I am 
willing to toil, to suffer hardship and privation; but 
I should deem it little better than legal pollution to 
give my hand to a man whom I do not love." 

'' But think, Caroline, how desolate you will be, 
when I am gone; — an orphan, with neither brother, 
sister, or any relative, able and willing to assist 
you ! You are young, too, and I fear not to say to 
you, very beautiful ; — dangerous gifts, these, to a 
poor and unfriended girl — God grant that they 
may never lead you into trial or temptation ! I 
cannot conceive the reason of your dislike to 
George Wilson. True, he is not rich ; if he were, 
I should be less forward in urging this matter ; but 
I am told, by those who know him, that he is an 
industrious, enterprising young man, and an excel- 
lent workman ; and industry and application can- 
not fail to insure him success. And then you 
allow him his full quota of good looks and agree- 
ableness ; neither do you deny him a large share 
of intellectuality and talent ; and you must know, 
Caroline, for it does not require a very acute eye to 
detect it, that he is ardently and passionately 



PROSE. 293 

attached to you ; he is kind and gentle, frank and 
generous, and if you do not love him now, you 
will soon learn to do so." 

"I have little faith, dear mother, in the theory of 
' love after inarriage^ and I can conceive nothing 
more dreadful than to be condemned to pass my 
life in the society of a man whom I do not love. 
I am sure no fetters could be so galling." 

'' There is a far worse bondage, Caroline, — that 
of a true-hearted, loving woman linked by the clos- 
est ties to a worthless and brutal husband ! From 
such a fate I would save you, by bestowing you 
on one who will tenderly cherish you. My beloved 
child, the dearest wish of my heart is to see you 
the wife of George Wilson." 

"Mother, dear mother, spare yourself, and me ! 
You are exhausted with talking so long and ear- 
nestly ; I will adjust your pillows, and then you 
must rest a while." 

" Caroline, I cannot rest ! — night and day, sleep- 
ing or waking, my thoughts are constantly dwelling 
on your future destiny. Come nearer to me, dearest ! 
sit here, so that I can see and feel that you are 
near, and listen to a short and simple record of my 
experience. I was the only girl in a family of 
seven children, and was constantly the pet and 
favorite of the whole. My parents were not richly 
gifted with this world's goods, but they were fru- 
gal and prudent, and contrived to save from their 
limited income sufficient to afford their children 
the best educations. Of my six brothers, three 
chose a collegiate course and professions, one pushed 



294 PROSE. 

his fortunes in the far West, another entered the 
mercantile line, and the youngest became a hardy, 
daring sailor, while I remained at home, the com- 
panion of my mother, and the darling of both 
parents. As I grew to womanhood, I acquired the 
fame of a beauty, and this reputation soon drew 
around me a crowd of suitors and admirers. I was 
alike indifferent to all; but I was not long in per- 
ceiving that my family encouraged the attentions 
of a college friend of my oldest brother, who was a 
frequent visiter at the house. It was then, and has 
always been, matter of wonder to me, that the 
highly educated and gifted Alick Hervey should 
ever have dreamed of loving, still less of marrying, 
the simple, bashful, and little accomplished girl, 
who looked up to him with awe and reverence, as 
to some 'bright, particular star,' respecting and 
fearing him, but never daring to love him. But so 
it was. For many months he paid me the most 
unwearying and exclusive, yet delicate attentions, 
which I had neither courage nor self-confidence to 
repel, till he poured into my ear the declaration of 
his attachment. Then, I was compelled to nerve 
myself, and with trembling words I acknowledged 
my inferiority to him, and the utter impossibility of 
my ever returning his affection. I shall never for- 
get the look he cast upon me, as, without uttering 
a word, he snatched up his hat, and rushed from 
the house. 

''At our next meeting, my timid salutation was 
returned with cold, formal courtesy ; and when I 
saw him again, a dark-eyed girl was leaning on 



PROSE. 295 

his arm, whom, in measured terms, he introduced 
to me as his wife. I had prepared myself to meet 
with composure the reproaches of my father, and 
the tender entreaties of my mother ; but, to my sur- 
prise, they never mentioned Hervey's name, and 
all my efforts to draw it into our conversation were 
unsuccessful. Previous to this time, perfect confi- 
dence had subsisted between my parents and my- 
self, and the want of it sensibly affected me ; and 
one day, during a short tete-d-tete interview with 
my mother, I abruptly informed her of Alick's pro- 
posals, and my rejection of them. ' I know it all, 
Sophy,' she replied; 'and Alick Hervey is the 
man of all others to whom we could have wished 
to see you united. We have sacrificed our hopes to 
your fancied ideas of love and happiness, but, alas ! 
my child, I fear you will one day bitterly rue it.' 
A few months after Alick Hervey's marriage, I 
became acquainted with William Temple, a clerk 
in one of the principal banks of the city. He was 
a handsome man, of fashionable address, and insin- 
uating manners ; he exerted his powers of pleasing 
to the utmost, and I, who had carelessly spurned 
the homage of the high-souled and gifted Hervey, 
yielded my heart to the gay and thoughtless Tem- 
ple. My parents instantly and decidedly refused 
their consent, representing that he had been a wild, 
dissolute young man, and urging that an undutiful 
son must make a bad husband. ' We yielded to 
your wishes, Sophy,' they said, 'in regard to 
young Hervey, and surely some sacrifice is now 
due on your part toward us ; for we will never give 



296 PROSE. 

our sanction to your marriage with this man.' 
Wisely and well did they counsel me, but their 
words fell on ears that refused to listen, and van- 
ished into thin air before the delusive sophistry of 
AVilliam Temple ; and in an evil hour, unblest with 
the presence or consent of my parents, I became his 
wife, and an outcast from my early home. My 
father swore never to forgive me, and my mother 
refused to see me; yet, for one year, I was happy, 
and fancied that no retribution was in store for my 
wilful disobedience. But it came, at length. Your 
birth, Caroline, was succeeded by a dangerous and 
protracted illness ; during that time I saw little of 
William, and when, after three months of sickness 
and suffering, I left my chamber, it was to learn 
that my husband was fast becoming a drunkard 
and a gamester. He was discharged from his 
situation in the bank, and poverty was added to 
our other evils ; and, as if to cap the climax of my 
distress, my parents died — my father without one 
word of forgiveness, and my mother without men- 
tioning the name of her disobedient child. For 
seventeen years the curse lay heavy on my soul, yet 
for your sake, my child, I bore up under it ; I toiled 
night and day, I endured privations of every kind 
— I watched, wept, and prayed, for you. Such, 
Caroline, has been the result of my love-match. I 
have lived to look with regret and envy on the bliss 
of Alick Hervey and his wifs — happiness which 
might have been mine, but for a foolish, romantic 
whim ; I have learned to look with almost loathing 
on the husband of my choice, the object of my early 



PROSE. 297 

idolatry. But I need not tell you^ Caroline, who 
have been my sole friend and companion during 
those long, weary years, of the bitter words 
which have sunk deep into my heart, or the brutal 
treatment which has bowed and broken my spirit. 
You have seen and know it all ; and it is from a 
destiny like this I would save you. My sands are 
well-nigh run; and I could die in peace, feeling that 
my errors were expiated and forgiven, could I see 
you wedded to a kind and honorable man." 

" Mother," exclaimed the agitated girl, in a voice 
broken by sobs, " I am neither wilful nor capricious 
— my only aim is to make you happy while you 
live; and for your sake, I will marry George Wilson, 
and ever ti^y to love him. He will be kind and 
good to you, and that, at least, will render him 
dearer to me." 

When George paid his customary visit, that eve- 
ning, he perceived a difference in Caroline's man- 
ner towards him; something which could not be 
explained, but which, slight as it was, spoke vol- 
umes of hope and encouragement to the lover ; and 
ere he left the house that night, he knelt with Caro- 
line at her mother's bedside, and Mrs. Temple, 
clasping their united hands in her own, called 
down a fervent benediction upon them. Three 
weeks from that night, the same group, with 
the addition of one or two neighbors, were assem- 
bled in a neat, pleasant chamber, in a house not far 
from their former residence. Mrs. Temple was 
propped up in bed, and opposite its foot stood 

George and Caroline, before the man of God, who 
25 



298 PROSE. 

was about to unite them in the hohest ties. If 
Carohne's cheek was paler than its wont, that night, 
and her eye less bright than usual, none deemed 
that it had a deeper cause than her mother's preca- 
rious state. The solemn ceremony was soon over 
— the neighbors, with simple congratulations, de- 
parted, and Caroline knelt to receive her mother's 
blessing, a wedded wife. 

II. 

Some three years after I heard of Caroline's 
marriage, I was again in the city, visiting some' 
friends; and one evening, soon after my arrival, 
they insisted on my accompanying them to the 
theatre, to witness the performance of a new actress, 
who was witching the hearts of the citizens. She 
was said to possess rare beauty, and considerable 
dramatic knowledge and talent; and it was prophe- 
sied by many experienced play-goers and judges, 
that she would, ere long, become a star of the first 
magnitude. On our way to the theatre, my com- 
panions could neither think nor speak of anything 
but '■^tlie Woodford" — the superb, the charming, 
the unrivalled ; and when I took my seat in the 
box, my imagination was fairly excited. The play 
was Romeo and Juliet ; and oh, how impatiently I 
waited for the third scene, which was to introduce 
the Veronese maiden ! I had changed my position 
for a moment, to speak to an acquaintance, when a 
long, deafening shout of applause rang through the 
house ; I turned to the stage — my eyes rested on 
the form of the actress, and starting from my seat, 



PROSE. 299 

I had well-nigh uttered the name of — -'Caroline! " 
I could not be mistaken ; five years had gone by 
since last I looked upon that face, but its linea- 
ments were too deeply impressed on my mind ever 
to be forgotten. Time had changed her too, but it 
had only rendered her more lovely ; the figure, 
which at fifteen, had been too slender for its height, 
had now filled out superb and Juno-like, and from 
the full, graceful bust rose the dazzling white 
throat in swan-like beauty ; the rich chesnut hair, 
with here and there a brighter shade, as if golden 
dust had been sprinkled among it, was simply 
braided, and wrapped around the small, classic, 
and beautifully set head; the large, liquid eyes 
shone like stars through a veil of blue, and I won- 
dered not at the wild excitement of the audience, 
when this vision of loveliness burst upon their 
sight. During the remainder of the evening, I sat 
like one spell-bound ; the other performers were 
all unheeded — my eye was riveted to Caroline's 
face, my ear drank in only the melodious tones of 
her voice. The play ended, but my thoughts still 
followed her, and I was only roused from my 
abstraction, by the merry voice of one of my 
companions, exclaiming — -''How now! are you 
dreaming, coz, or has the fair Juliet turned your 
head, and led your senses captive? Come, are you 
ready?" 

On the way home the conversation naturally 
turned upon the actress, and I eagerly sought to 
obtain some information concerning her. 

"Is she not beautiful?" said my eldest cousin; 



300 PROSE. 

''and then the mystery which hangs over her ren- 
ders her even more attractive to many people. 
Nothing certain is known of her former history. 
Some say that she is the natural daughter of a late 
celebrated actor, while others affirm that, young as 
she is, she has been a wife and mother ; that mis- 
conduct on her husband's part has separated them, 
and that her child is consigned to some friends of 
her own ; and there are a few, even, who declare 
she is a native of this city, and was a schoolmate 
of their own." 

I retired to rest, but my slumbers were disturbed 
and broken ; my thoughts were still with the beau- 
tiful actress. Well did I remember Caroline's 
passion for the drama, and the eagerness with 
which she seized upon a copy of Shakspeare ; and 
yet I could not conceive by what combination of 
circumstances the delicate and shrinking Caroline 
had been induced to forego the timidity of her girl- 
hood, and expose herself to the admiring gaze 
of that vast multitude ; and I at length sank to 
sleep, with the determination to seek her out in the 
morning, and learn from her own lips all that had 
befallen her since we parted. I set out at an early 
hour, and bent my steps towards the street in 
which I had been told she resided. On reaching 
the house, I inquired for Miss Woodford, which 
was the title she bore in her new vocation, and 
was informed that she did not receive visiters ; but 
on sending up my name, the girl returned to con- 
duct me to her room, and in another moment Car- 
oline was weeping on my shoulder. I need not 



PEOSE, 301 

detail the incidents preliminary to the recital of 

her story. 

"I cannot tell you, dear C," she said, "how 
rejoiced I am to look once more on the face of a 
friend, to whom I can confide my griefs, and hope 
to meet with kindness and sympathy. Sorrow has 
dogged my footsteps since I saw you last ; poverty, 
disgrace and death, have each added their quota to 
the contents of my cup, and I have drained it to 
the dregs. You say you heard of my marriage 
with George Wilson, but you probably did not 
hear that I had wedded a man I did not love, to 
save a sick and dying mother from starvation. 
You did not know all the consequences that have 
resulted from that ill-omened union. For several^ 
months after my marriage, all went on smoothly, 
and I was content, if not happy. But then came 
the terrible pressure of the winter of 183-, which 
no one, I fancy, who felt it, will ever forget, and 
among hundreds of others, George was thrown out 
of employment. He sought diligently everywhere 
for work, and was willing to undertake any office ; 
but his efforts were unsuccessful, and then it was, 
amid poverty and privation, that the tide of my 
afiections turned, and I began to love him for his 
very misfortunes. But in the midst of this dark- 
ness, a ray of light at length broke. Mr. , an 

actor of some note, with whom George was 
acquainted, knowing that he possessed considera- 
ble talent, engaged hirn to write a play for a bene- 
fit which he was to take in the course of the sea- 
son, and promised him a handsome remuneration. 
25=^ 



302 PROSE. 

George set about the task with avidity. Night and 
day he was at work, while I alternately read and 
copied his rough manuscript; but just as the 
play was completed, Mr. was taken sud- 
denly and alarmingly ill; and even when he 
recovered, his physicians said it would be long 
ere he was able to resume his professional pursuits. 
Thus was the labor of many long weeks thrown 
away, and it was now mid-winter; the weather 
was bitter and inclement, and oar fuel was well- 
nigh spent. Debts had been necessarily incurred 
during the progress of the useless work, and to 
add to our distress, my mother now craved food 
and delicacies which we were unable to procure; 
while my own health was very delicate, requiring 
constant care and nursing. George was well- 
nigh distracted. I endeavored to impart comfort, 
but felt how vain it was, when I looked on the 
desolation and poverty which surrounded us. At 
length, when our misery seemed to have reached 
its climax, George one day returned home with 
a large sum of money, which, in reply to my 
anxious inquiries, he stated to have been obtained 
from the actor to the non-fulfilment of whose 
promise was owing the extremity to which we 
were reduced. Our debts were now paid, and 
we were again surrounded by every comfort. 
This sum was soon expended ; another was 
obtained from the same source, and when the 
second supply was nearly exhausted, George left 
us for a day, as he said, to replenish his purse. On 
the afternoon of the day he was expected to return, 



PROSE. 303 

my mother had sunk into a profound slumber, and 
I was sitting by a window watching for his appear- 
ance, when a woman who occupied a part of the 
house informed me that a person wished to speak 
with me. I obeyed the summons, and was met in 
the entry by a cold, stern-looking old man, from 
whose presence I involuntarily shrunk, as from the 
bearer of evil news. The harshness of his looks 
gradually gave way, as he gazed on me, to a pity- 
ing expression, and, filled with apprehension, I ear- 
nestly demanded to know his business with me. 

"'Are you prepared to hear unpleasant tidings?' 
he said ; ' for such, if you be the wife of George 
Wilson, I have to communicate ; and it is at his 
request I come.' 

" 'Go on !' was all I had power to utter, and the 
tale was soon told. George had been arrested for 
forgery, and was in prison. Two notes had been 
paid at different banks, and thence had been 
derived his lavish supplies of money ; but on pre- 
senting a third, the day previous, the fraud had 
been detected, and he was instantly committed for 
trial. I remember nothing that folio Aved this an- 
nouncement, till I found myself lying on a sofa in 
the apartment of Mrs. White, the woman to whom 
I have before alluded ; she was chafing my tem- 
ples, v/hile the bearer of that fearful message stood 
beside me, anxiously regarding my face. I deter- 
mined, of course, to go immediately to George ; and 
requesting Mrs. White to sit with my mother 
a while, and on no account to let a word of what 
had happened reach her, I accompanied the officer 



304 PROSE. 

to the prison. Words are inadequate to describe 
that meeting ! George could give me no consola- 
tion, for he could not deny the truth of the charge, 
and it was to save me from want and care that he 
had done it. During the period that intervened 
between his arrest and his sentence, I visited him 
daily, and strove amid my own bitterness of spirit 
to cheer and comfort him. But that day came, at 
length, — his doom was pronounced, and my hus- 
band was consigned to ten weary years' confine- 
ment in the State Prison ! I saw him but for a 
few moments before he was borne to his fearful 
abode ; but oh ! the sufferings of years were concen- 
trated in that brief space ! and when I returned, 
worse than widowed, to my home, it was but to 
look on another scene of distress. During my 
absence, a neighbor had called to see my mother, 
and supposing her to be acquainted with what 
had happened, began speaking of and reprobated 
George in no measured terms. My mother listened 
in horror-stricken silence; and when the woman 
repeated the doom which had been pronounced, 
she went into strong convulsions. In this state I 
found her on my return, and it was with the great- 
est difficulty we could keep her from springing 
from the bed and falling at my feet. ' O Caroline, 
you can never forgive me ! ' she wildly exclaimed, 
as I took her hand ; ' it was I who persuaded you 
to become his wife, though God knows I thought I 
was securing your happiness thereby!' I en- 
treated her to be calm. I assured her that no 
blame attached to her, and that she needed no for- 



PROSE. 305 

giveness from me; but the shock had been too 
great, and ere another morning dawned, I was an 
orphan. The sale of our furniture enabled me to 
pay all necessary expenses, and then I removed to 
the house of a poor but worthy woman who had 
been kind to us in our misfortunes ; and there, in 
the midst of poverty and tears, I gave birth to a 
daughter, the heiress of her father's disgrace and 
mother's sorrow. How often, as I lay on that bed 
•>f sickness, did I pray thafl might never rise from 
it again ! But it was not so to be. I recovered 
rapidly, but I was unable to afford the natural 
nourishment to my little Sophia, — for so had I 
named her, in memory of my dead mother. The 
physician said that unless she was placed at nurse 
I must lose her, and she was accordingly consigned 
to the care of a healthy woman a few miles from 
the city, who had lost an infant of the same age. 
This, of course, greatly increased my expenses, and 
I was obliged to toil unremittingly, snatching only 
an hour, now and then, to visit my child ; but the 
most untiring industry would not enable me to 
meet my exigencies, and at the expiration of a 
year, I found myself burthened with a heavy debt, 
which I had no possible means of liquidating. I 
was sitting alone in my little attic, one afternoon, 
busily engaged in finishing a piece of work which 
I had promised, and musing on the events of the 
past and present, when a knock at my door 
announced a visiter, and rising to open it, I ad- 
mitted a fine-looking and richly-dressed woman. 
I supposed her errand to be concerning some work; 



306 PROSE. 

but on asking her business, she repKed that it 
regarded a very interesting subject, and she went 
on to say, that she was the wife of a lawyer in a 
town not far distant; she was weaUhy and pros- 
perous, but unblest with children, and this was to 
"her a source of unfeigned regret. She had been 
visiting for several weeks in the village where my 
babe was at^nurse, and had frequently seen it; its 
beauty and winning ways had drawn her attention, 
and she said she had learned to love the little crea- 
ture almost as if it were her own. A friend of hers 
had told her much of my history and embarrass- 
ments, and her present business was to offer me a 
method of relieving them. Her proposal was, to 
adopt my little Sophia as her own — to bring her up 
according to her own plans, and in total ignorance 
of her real parents. I was to renounce all claims 
upon the infant, and never to see her after her adop- 
tion ; and in return, they would clear my debts, and 
give me such a sum as I required. A fortnight was 
given me for reflection, and laying her card on the 
table beside me, the lady departed. It were in vain 
for me to attempt a description of my sufferings 
during that time. On the one hand, my very love 
for my Sophia urged me to place her where she 
would receive advantages that I could never bestow, 
and become the heiress to a fortune which would 
exempt her, in all probability, from the misfortunes 
which had fallen to my lot ; and then, when I saw 
her again, and her soft arms were twined around 
my neck, I felt as if it were impossible to separate 
myself from her. But at length my desire to pro- 



TROSE. 307 

mote her interests triumphed over every selfish 
motive; the die was cast — she was mine no longer 
on earth. O, years may pass away, and sear every 
other feeling and emotion in my heart, but they 
will never erase the memory of that hour when I 
signed the contract which gave my first-born, my 
only child, to the love and the embraces of a 
stranger ! I have never looked upon her since; but 
her image is ever before me, and my only hope is 
that I shall one day meet her again — that in the 
world above I shall clasp her to my bosom, my 
own once more and forever ! When that excite- 
ment Avas over, I sank into a kind of stupor, from 
which nothing had power to rouse me ; I became 
listless and misanthropic, and I know not to what 
state I might have been reduced, but for the arrival 

of a letter from Mr. , the actor. He had 

become manager of a popular theatre, and having 
heard of my circumstances, paid knowing my love 
for the drama, he made a proposition to me to join 
his stage company. At first I felt too apathetic to 
give much attention to the subject; but I took 
Shakspeare from his dusty nook, and began to 
read. As I went on, all my former taste seemed 
to return, and before night 1 had written to accept 

Mr. 's offer. In a month from that time, I 

made my debut. It was eminently successful, and 
my star still remains in the ascendant. Many 
have asked me why I did not choose i ome other 
occupation ; but I would not exchange it for any 
other. At the commencement of my career I felt 
unpleasantly at exposing myself to the public gaze ; 



308 PROSE. 

but I have now grown accustomed to it. I rejoice 
in the joys of the fictitious personages whom I 
represent, and in depicting their sorrows for a time 
forget my own ; so you see I am now in the best 
sphere in which I could possibly move." 

Thus ended Caroline's narrative. I visited her 
daily during my stay in the city, and when we 
parted she promised to write to me, and for a long 
time the correspondence was continued ; then it 
stopped, and all knowledge of her whereabouts 
was again suspended. 

III. 
I never saw Caroline again ; but from a mutual 
friend, who accidentally found her out, and was 
with her in her last days, I heard the remnant of 
her sad history. For several years after I last saw 
her, she continued the ornament of her profession, 
when suddenly she renounced a lucrative engage- 
ment, and departed none knew whither: and when 
next she was heard of, the beautiful, brilliant and 
gifted Caroline was the inmate of a mad-house. 
Horror-struck . by the fearful dispensation, her 
friends hastened to see her; the physicians pro- 
nounced her case incurable ; but after several 
months of incessant ravings, of which her child 
was the constant subject, by degrees her reason 
returned. Her constitution, however, was com- 
pletely destroyed, and after a brief season of suffer- 
ing her earthly career ended. A short time before 
her death, she communicated to the friend who 
was with her the circumstances which had led 



PROSE. 309 

to her insanity, withholding only the name of the 
family with whom Sophia was placed, as she 
had sworn to do so. From the time she resigned 
her child, it had never ceased to haunt her 
mind ; and at length her feelings were wrought to 
such a pitch, that she determined, at all hazards, to 
see it once more. Accordingly, she gave up her 
dramatic engagements, and set out for the village 
where the child resided, and proceeding to the 
house, requested an interview with the mistress. 
The lady pretended not to recognize her, and Car- 
oline's earnest and touching entreaties that she 
might he permitted to look once more upon her 
darling were coldly and harshly refused. But 
while she sat there, a gay, childish voice was 
lieard, and the little Sophia came bounding into 
the room. With a cry of joy, Caroline started to 
her feet, and the child, with a glance at her sweet 
face, stole timidly towards her; when, rudely 
snatching her away, the unfeeling woman rushed 
from the apartment, leaving the poor mother half 
fainting, and unable to follow her. With trem- 
bling steps she left the house, and returned to the 
inn. Through the livelong day she sat brooding- 
over the repulse of the morning; and when the 
evening approached, she stole out, and having 
climbed the little fence at the back of the house 
which contained her child, she succeeded in enter- 
ing by means of an open window in the hall. She 
had ascertained in which room the little one slept, 
— a small bed- room adjoining the apartment of her 
adopted parents, — and softly opening the door, in 
26 



310 PROSE. 

a moment she was at its side. The child was 
sleeping calmly, and she leaned over it for a few 
moments with the most intense love ; but she dared 
not trust herself there long, and fearful of awaking 
the watchful guardians in the adjoining room, she 
clasped a small bracelet made of her own hair, and 
bearing her initials on the clasp, around the little 
plump arm which lay outside the counterpane^, 
and pressing her lips to its dimpled cheek, she 
departed as she came. The next morning the 
bracelet was returned, accompanied by a note 
charging Caroline with a violation of the contract, 
and filled with bitter threats in case she ever 
entered their dwelling again. A line from her, 
they stated, would at any time bring her in return 
a full account of the health and well-being of the 
little one, but she would not be permitted to see her 
again. 

In the afternoon of the same day, Caroline was 
walking slowly past the lane leading to the house 
that held her darling, and casting mournfully wist- 
ful looks towards it, when she espied the little 
Sophia playing beneath a tree. By an irresistible 
impulse, she went forward, and stretched out her 
arms to the child; but instead of meeting her 
embrace as on the previous day, the child shrank 
back, exclaiming, "I must not come near you! my 
mother says you are a bold, bad woman, and I 
must not love you or speak to you again!" and 
she darted back to the house, while Caroline 
retraced her steps to the inn, and threw herself 
upon the floor. There she was found by the 



PROSE. 311 

inmates, uttering incoherent words, and staring 
wildly round ; and the terrified people sent for the 
physician and minister. They came, but their 
presence was unavailing. Her ravings increased, 
and ere the close of the third day she was placed 
in the lunatic asylum. 

The friend who told me these particulars said 
that during Caroline's last illness her child was 
never absent from her mind ; even in her sleep, she. 
would start and exclaim, ''My child! give me 
back my child ! " And its name was the last word 
that passed her lips ere death sealed them forever. 
Poor Caroline ! with all her glorious beauty and 
rare gifts, with all her heart-aches and misfortunes, 
she sleeps in peace beside the mother the intensity 
of whose love for her caused her misery ! 

Dear reader, should this tale seem to you too 
sad, too dark a "Shadow," remember it is no 
fiction, but a passage from the records of real life, 
and a true, though imperfect sketch, of one whose 
memory is enshrined in many loving hearts. 



THE IRISH DAUGHTER-IN-LAW. 

" Room, mother, in thy heart ! place for her in thy prayer !" 

Willis. 

The beams of the morning sun shone brightly 
into the breakfast-parlor of the Willows, a beauti- 
ful country-seat on the banks of the Hudson, the 
residence of Mr. Channing, a wealthy merchant 
of New York. A cheerful group was gathered 
round the breakfast-table, consisting of the mer- 



312 PROSE. 

chant himself, a fine-looking man, something past 
the prime of life, who was busily engaged in dis- 
cussing alternately his coffee and the daily paper ; 
his wife, a stately, fashionably dressed woman ; 
Alice and Mary, two grown-up young ladies ; 
Sydney, a fine lad of sixteen ; Lizzy and Fanny, 
the younger girls, and Miss Beaufort, their gov- 
erness. 

''Letters! letters!" exclaimed Ellen, the young- 
est of the family, a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked lass 
of seven years, as she bounded into the room with 
a huge package which she had just taken from the 
postman, and placed it in her father's hands for 
distribution. There were letters of friendship and 
of compliment ■ — business letters for Mr. Channing 
— sentimental effusions from young lady friends 
for the elder girls, and a love-letter for the fair 
governess, if one might judge by the ill-suppressed 
smiles and brilliant blushes with which she received 
it, and put it into her pocket without reading; and 
last of all was a large one for Mrs. Channing. 

^' Post-marked in Dublin ; — from Frank, I sup- 
pose," said Mr. C, as he handed it to his wife; 
" read it quick, for we are all impatient to hear 
from him." 

She broke the seal, and read on in silence till 
she had nearly reached the bottom of the second 
page, when she suddenly dropped the letter, ex- 
claiming, " Preposterous ! Well, really, this is too 
bad!" 

"What news?" said Mr. Channing; and "What 
news 7" was reiterated by every one at the table. 



PROSE. 313 

^' News, indeed ! " was the reply ; " Frank is 
married !" 

''Is that air?" said her husband, bursting into a 
hearty laugh; '■^'■well^ really^'' my dear, I see no 
cause for such weighty indignation on your part. 
Frank, at six and twenty, has surely arrived at 
years of discretion ; and, if you recollect, I was four 
years younger when I entered the matrimonial 
noose." 

'' I wonder if she is very handsome," said Alice, 
the beauty. " Does he say who she is ? is she 
fashionable?" inquired Mary, the belle. "I dare 
say she is handsome enough, and good enough, if 
she is Frank's choice," said Sydney; and "So do I," 
and " So do I," was echoed by the younger ones. 

"But you have not heard all yet," said Mrs. 
Channing. "I have not yet told you that Frank's 
bride is an Irish girl, and her name Bridget 
O'Brien ! I do think, well as Frank knew my 
prejudices against that nation, he might have 
spared me this mortification ! " 

"Such a name, too!" cried Mary. "She is 
doubtless some vulgar, showy girl, who, attracted 
by Frank's elegant person and gentlemanly appear- 
ance, has had art enough to inveigle him into 
marrying her." 

" I can fancy how she looks, exactly," responded 
Alice. "I suppose she is some tall, awkward, red- 
haired girl, fair and fat, with peony-hued cheeks, 
and a rich brogue, which my enamored brother 
will doubtless think full of music. Bridget, for- 
sooth ! — Why, how can you laugh, Eveline 7" 
26^ 



314 PROSE. 

she continued J turning to Miss Beaufort, whose 
large hazel eyes were liquid with mirth, while her 
low, musical laugh displayed to advantage her 
handsome mouth, and teeth of surpassing white- 
ness and brilliancy. 

"No one could refrain from laughing, Alice, who 
heard your glowing description of your brother's 
bride; you give him credit for little taste and judg- 
ment, I think." 

'' He has shown his want of it in his choice, 
surely ; but, mother, when is this Irish damsel to 
claim relationship in propria persoyim 7 Does Frank 
mention the period of his return '? Pray Heaven it 
be not very near ! " 

"He does not name the precise time," returned 
Mrs. Channing, "but he says he shall probably be 
with us by the commencement of the new year^ 
so we have still a respite of several months to pre- 
pare ourselves." 

"Well, well, — what's done can't be helped," said 
Mr. Channing, as he left the table, " and I see no 
other way for us to pursue than to make the best 
of it, and to receive our Irish daughter-in-law with 
courtesy and affection.^ It may be that she is the 
tenderly cherished child of fond parents, from 
whom she is now to separate, and whose long- 
tried and sure affection she is to exchange for the 
love of a stranger. Think what your feelings 
would be, in leaving the home of your childhood 
for a foreign land, relying solely on the honor and 
faith of one who, perhaps, is but the acquaintance 
of a few brief months — think of this, and I ain 



PROSE. 315 

sure you will not be wanting in kindness and atten- 
tion to your brother's wife, let her nation be what 
it may. And what prouder birth-place can she 
have than that of Emmet, and Ourran. and Moore, 
and Sheridan?" 

Sydney followed his father from the room, Miss 
Beaufort retired to her own apartment, the younger 
girls sought the garden and play-ground, and Mrs. 
Channing was left alone with her elder daughters. 

''It is too bad, I declare!" exclaimed Alice; ''1 
can never forgive Frank for frustrating my plans. 
Ever since Eveline Beaufort became a member of 
our family, I have set my heart upon a match 
between her and my brother ! " 
. "What, — a governess!" cried Mrs. Channing, 
'' and a person of whose birth and connections we 
are totally ignorant?" 

" A maiden dowered with Eveline's brilliant 
beauty, talents, and accomplishments, needs not, 
in my opinion, rank or wealth to recommend her. 
Nature has placed her on a level with the proudest, 
though no one, I think, who v/itnesses the grace- 
ful dignity of her deportment and the ease of her 
manners, can doubt her gentle blood and breeding ; 
and for her name, surely that is unexceptionable. 
I wish we could prevail upon her to go into soci- 
ety more, and I would venture to predict that she 
would be the star of fashion." 

'•One would think you were yourself Eveline's 
lover, from the animation with which you speak 
of her," said Mrs. Channing, smiling. 

•I am," replied Alice, "if intense admiration of 



a' 



316 PROSE. 

her beauty, and deep love for her numerous good 
quahties of head and heart, comprise the necessary 
requisites to be one; and I hope she will never have 
one less sincere." 

While this conversation was passing, the fair 
subject of Alice's lamentations was quietly seated 
in her bed-room, perusing, with sparkling eyes, 
the letter she had just received ; and while she is 
thus engaged, we will give the reader a slight 
account of her. Some two or three months before 
the commencement of our story, Mrs. Channing 
was busily seeking a governess for her younger 
girls ; and in reply to her many inquiries, after 
having rejected several applications, she received 
a letter from a near relative, recommending a 
young friend of her own as admirably qualified to 
fill the situation. No information, beyond the 
name of the young lady, was given; but as the 
friend who recommended her was wealthy and 
influential, and one whom Mrs. Channing cared 
not to offend, no questions were asked, and Eveline 
Beaufort became a member of the family at the 
Willows. She was apparently not more than 
nineteen years of age at that time, and was gifted 
with rare and exceeding beauty, and many and 
varied accomplishments. She won the love of her 
pupils as if by magic, and by degrees twined her- 
self round the hearts of all. 

Alice Channing had, even as she stated to her 
mother, formed the idea of promoting a match 
between her brother Frank and Eveline ; and she 



mosE. 317 

had, accordingly, in her correspondence with him, 
been lavish in descriptions and praises of her friend. 

'' You tell of the charms of foreign ladies," she 
wrote, ''but if you were here, I could show you 
one who will rival the fairest. Eveline Beaufort, 
the girls' governess and our dear friend, is the 
loveliest creature you ever beheld ; but even her 
beauty, well as I love and much as I talk of it, is 
scarcely to be compared with her admirable tem- 
per, her generous spirit, and sweetness of disposi- 
tion. I defy all Europe to produce her equal." 

Lizzy and Fanny, too, were eloquent in her 
praise. "I wish you could see our governess, 
Frank ; she is so pretty, and gentle, and good, and 
kind, I am sure you would love her if you knew 
her as well as we do." With Mr. Channing, also, 
Eveline was a prime favorite, and during that 
winter she was enabled to render services to the 
family which effectually secured her a high place 
in the esteem and affections of all. She had not 
been long an inmate of the Willows, when little 
Ellen was attacked with the measles, a disorder 
which was that year peculiarly malignant. Eveline 
was her constant attendant, and the child could 
bear no other to approach her. Night and day she 
was at the couch, and ere the disease had reached 
its crisis, Lizzy and Fanny took the infection, and 
were added to Eveline's charge. The duties of 
the school-room were now exchanged for those of 
the hospital, and, with the exception of a short 
interval, now and then, to eat her meals, or to take 
a little out-of-door exercise, she never left the room. 



318 PROSE. 

The children all recovered, and the physician paid 
their governess the highest encomiums ; for to her 
careful and tender nursing, he said, was owing, 
under Providence, their complete restoration. The 
gratitude of the parents knew no bounds, and was 
made manifest to Eveline by a thousand delicate 
attentions. Nor did their obligations end here. 
Scarcely were the children restored to health, when 
Mrs. Channing was attacked with a slow nervous 
fever, which required perfect quiet, and untiring 
patience on the part of the nurse. None could pre- 
serve order and manage everything so well as Eve- 
Hne ; and she was again, at her own request, sta- 
tioned in the sick room. She remained at her post, 
faithfully fulfilling all the requirements of her voca- 
tion, till the fever was broken up, and then resumed 
her duties in the school-room, with the exception of 
a short interval which was devoted to attendance 
upon- Mr. Channing during a severe fit of rheu- 
matism, when, as every one who has ever seen 
or experienced anything of the disorder is aware, 
the querulousness and impatience of the sufierer 
render the task of the nurse by no means pleasant 
or easy. Her gentleness and assiduity, the ear- 
nestness with which she anticipated his wants, and 
her kindness in ministering to them, won upon the 
frank, generous heart of Mr. Channing, and he often 
declared that Eveline seemed quite as near to him 
as his own dear girls. Her services were faithfully 
recorded in the letters which told Frank of their 
domestic af&ictions and their safe deliverance there- 
from, and Alice had fairly persuaded herself that 



PROSE. 319 

her brother could not fail to be intensely in love 
with the portrait she had drawn of her friend, and 
quite ready, on his return, to enter into her plans, 
when the letter came which brought the news of 
his marriage, — and, worse than all, with an Irish 
girl, whose very name suggested nothing but 
-awkwardness and vulgarity. 

The months that were to elapse before Prank 
Channing's return to his native land flew swiftly 
by. Alice, at her father's request, uttered in a tone 
too decisive to admit of any demurring, had written 
to congratulate her brother on his marriage, and to 
bid his foreign bride, in behalf of the whole family, 
a friendly welcome to her new home. The day was 
fast approaching for the return of the long-absent 
one, when Miss Beaufort suddenly announced her 
intention of going to pass a few days with a friend 
who had just arrived in the country, after a long 
separation. " Pray do not go, Eveline, till after 
my brother's return," urged Alice. "I want your 
countenance in the first interview, and then I shall 
be in less danger of any breach of perfect courtesy 
to my Irish sister. And then, too, Frank has heard 
so much of you, I am sure he will wish to see you 
— indeed, Eveline, you shall not go yet." 

'' Indeed I must, Alice ! but you need not feel so 
disapp'ointed ; I think very likely I shall return in 
season to witness the reception of your brother and 
his bride ; and I am sure, dear Alice, your own 
kindness of heart, and your love for your brother, 
will not allow you to receive her otherwise than 
with affection and politeness." 



320 PROSE. 

New Year's eve came, and Mr. Channing's 
family were collected around a bright coal fire in 
their large, cheerful parlor, busily engaged in con- 
versation concerning the expected visiters, and in 
lamenting the continued absence of the governess. 
Soon the rattling of wheels was heard, a carriage 
drove to the door, and, ere any one could reach 
it, the long-absent, the beloved son and brother, 
entered the apartment. It was many minutes ere 
the warmth of their greeting subsided, and Frank 
Channing, turning, presented his wife. He had 
entered a little in advance of her, and, as she 
remained in the back-ground, she had been quite 
forgotten in the excitement; but now, as he led 
her forward, she removed the thick veil from her 
face, and as her low, musical laugh burst forth, 
the warm-hearted, eager Alice grasped the hand of 
the new comer, exclaiming, " My sister ! our own 
Eveline!" — and. the name was repeated in joyful 
accents by every voice. 

"Our Eveline your wife! — Eveline Beaufort, 
the governess — Bridget O'Brien, the Irish girl!" 
cried the puzzled mother. 

" The very same, my dear mother," returned 
her happy son. " Can you forgive the little deceit 
we have practised upon you ? I well knew, ami- 
able and lovable as you are in all other respects, 
that your prejudices against the Irish were very 
strong, and that the 'milk of human kindness' in 
your heart flowed not towards them. Had you 
dreamed that my sweet Eveline, lovely and good 
as she is, was one of that luckless nation, your 



PROSE. 321 

prejudices would have blinded you to her merits ; 
but in any other light I was very sure that her 
beauty would prepossess you in her favor, and her 
sterling worth gain daily upon your affections. I 
have learnt with the greatest pleasure, from the 
letters I have received, of the progress she has 
made ; and I felt that our object was now attained, 
and that I might safely present to you your Irish 
daughter-in-law, and to the girls their ' tall, awk- . 
ward, vulgar' sister, and let her 'rich brogue' 
speak for itself" 

And now, dear reader, would you like to hear 
a brief history of Frank Channing and his fair 
Irish bride ? Frank was the eldest of the family ; 
by turns the playfellow and counsellor of the little 
ones — the chosen friend of Sydney, who looked up 
to him with mingled admiration and love, and 
thought him the most perfect of human beings — 
the pride of his fashionable mother and sisters, and 
the object of his father's fondest wishes ; and, while 
his personal graces rendered him the delight of 
fashionable society, he also possessed a fund of 
knowledge and humor wherewith to instruct and 
amuse the home circle. At the time our story 
commences, he had been travelling two or three 
years in Europe ; and, about six months previous 
to his introduction to the reader, he had stopped 
with the intention of passing a few days by the 
celebrated lakes of Killarney. On the banks of 
one of the lakes was a small, picturesque-looking 
cottage, half-hidden by the dense foliage of some 
27 



322 PROSE. ■ 

old trees, which grew up before the door, and 
threw their waving branches over the roof, while 
its smooth, green lawn sloped almost to the water's 
edge, and here and there a clump of trees shaded 
a neat garden-chair, and tempted the weary trav- 
eller to rest. This rural spot was the abode of 
Mr. Beaufort, an Irish gentleman, descended from 
some of the noblest of Erin's sons, and himself a 
prototype of what they were, in the days when the 
land of the shamrock was in her glory, ere the 
"harp was hushed in Tara's halls." Mr. Beau- 
fort had been the father of seven children; but they 
had died, one after another, in infancy, and one 
only, the ^^oungest of all, was left to him. Wid- 
owed when the little one was scarce four years old, 
he had devoted himself exclusively to her nurture 
and education ; and at seventeen, Eveline Beaufort 
rivalled the celebrated ^^Kate Kearney ^'^ in beauty 
and witchery, though, fortunately, unlearnt in her 
coquetry. Tall, and possessing a figure to which 
" superb" is the only word that will apply, and 
which a sculptor would have longed to model — 
a complexion, not fair, for that word is far too 
tame to show forth the rich, delicate, ever-varying 
tints of her face, or their constant alternation of 
light and shadow — features finely chiselled, and 
the small, mobile mouth, completely imbedded in 
-dimples — a wealth of raven tresses, and long, jetty 
lashes that swept over the eloquent cheek, and, 
when raised, revealed a pair of large, radiant eyes, 
that would have set a Mussulman raving. Suca 
was Eveline Beaufort, the Flower of the Lakes 



PHosE. 323 

when she burst, in her queenly beauty, upon the 
amazed vision of Frank Channing ; and ere long 
the young American was a frequent and welcome 
visiter at Beaufort Cottage. But if her rare loveli- 
ness had witched his senses at first sight, how was 
his heart enslaved, when, thus brought into daily 
communion with her, he saw her in the constant 
exercise of every virtue that renders woman truly 
lovely and beloved ! — when he witnessed her filial 
piety, her gentleness, truthfulness, and purity of 
heart; when he saw her in the lowly cabin of pov- 
erty, at the miserable couch of the sick, relieving 
distress and ministering comfort — when every eye 
brightened at her approach, and every lip breathed 
blessings on her name ! Day by day, his visits 
grew more frequent, his devotion more apparent, 
his love more intense ; and still he dared not haz- 
ard an avowal. Was not Eveline beautiful, gifted, 
and high-born ? did not the most brilliant estab- 
lishments court her acceptance 1 were not the 
proud, the titled, the wealthy, and the gay, wor- 
shippers at her shrine? and how could he expect 
she would resign ' any or all of these for him ? 
*^ And yet," he would ask himself, " can it be that 
she is wholly indifierent to me ? In the midst of 
fulsome adulation and compliment, do not those 
glorious eyes often turn to me, as if seeking my 
approbation alone? If she sings, is it not the songs 
I love? If she reads, is it not from my favorite 
authors, and does she not dwell with peculiar 
emphasis on those passages we have both loved 
and read together ?" And so the result of all this 



324 PROSE. 

was, that, one fine, moonshiny eve, Mr. Frank 
Channing persuaded Miss Eveline that a walk 
round the margin of the beautiful lake would be 
delightful ; and during that most romantic ramble 
did the hoping, doubting lover pour forth a most 
eloquent rhapsody, and the maiden listened with 
mingled smiles and blushes, which certainly pre- 
saged no very unfavorable answer ; and so, as the 
reader has, of course, supposed, Frank and Eveline 
parted that night affianced lovers. 

Now, Frank Channing was very well aware 
of his mother's inveterate dislike to the children 
of the Emerald Isle. These prejudices he made 
known to his lady-love; and Eveline, possessing 
no small share of the ready wit and humor that 
distinguish her countrymen, proposed to intro- 
duce herself incog, into the family of her lover, 
and thus make her way into their good graces. 
Accordingly, their plan was laid as follows. Mrs. 
Channing had an old aunt, unmarried and wealthy, 
who was generally considered an oddity, and, but 
for her situation in life, would have commanded 
but little attention from her relatives. But Aunt 
Achsah was, nevertheless, a woman of good heart 
and generous impulses, and, withal, a spice of 
romance, which had no small influence upon her 
actions. With this good lady Frank had always 
been a favorite ; and as children usually know 
instinctively, as it were, who really love them, he 
had attached himself warmly to his old aunt, and, 
as he grew older, she had still retained his confi- 
dence and aflection. To her he now wrote, stating 



PROSE. 325 

how his love affair stood, and asking her assist- 
ance to further Eveline's plan. The good lady 
entered into it with avidity, offered her home to 
receive them, and promised her aid and secrecy. 
The result was, that Frank and Eveline were pri- 
vately married, and soon afterward, the hride, 
escorted by her father, sailed for America, and was 
duly received into the hospitable dwelling of Aunt 
Achsah, from which she was soon after trans- 
ferred, as the reader already knows, to the Wil- 
lows, as the governess of her young sisters-in-law. 
An account of her proceedings Avas faithfully 
transmitted to Frank, who then, in compliance 
with the arrangement previously made, wrote to 
acquaint his family with his marriage. 

With the effect of the letter, with Eveline's sub- 
sequent history, and the denoue^tnent^ the reader is 
already acquainted. And now, in conclusion, we 
have only to say, that Eveline is the pride and 
delight of her husband's family, and the admira- 
tion of all their friends ; that Mrs. Channing's 
foolish prejudices against the people of Erin have 
been fairly combated and destroyed, and, if there 
is one particular subject on which, more than on 
any other, she delights to dwell, it is the inimi- 
table graces and matchless virtues of her Irish 

DAUGHTER-IN-LAW. 

27^ 



326 PRost!. 



THE mother's heart. 

" Number thy lamps of love, and tell me now 
How many thou canst re-light at the stars, 
And blush not at their burning ? One — one only — 
Lit while your pulses by one heart kept time, 
And fed with. faithful fondness to your grave — 
One lamp — thy mother's love — amid tlie stars 
Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and before 
The throne of God burn thi'ough eternity — 
Holy — as it was lit and lent thee here." 

There is something holy and touching in the 
expression with which young people gaze upon 
their first-born child ; the new and strong link in 
the beautiful chain of their domestic affection — 
the tie which neither time nor misfortune, sickness, 
disgrace, nor even death itself, shall have power to 
sever. As they bend over the helpless babe, im- 
agination rapidly and hopefully pictures forth his 
gradual progress through the different stages of 
childhood, youth and manhood, and weaves bright 
crowns of honor, fame and happiness, to deck his 
brow ; and the mother looks forward to the time 
when her hours of pain and suffering, and the 
future cares that await her, shall all be amply 
recompensed by his love and welfare. 

Snch were doubtless the thoughts and dreams of 
Leslie Ashton and his young wife, the wedded 
lovers of a year, the parents of a few brief hours, 
as they gazed, with speechless delight, on the fair 
boy just given to their love and their embraces, 
and each sought to trace in its tiny features the 
lineaments of the other. There was another, too, 
beside that couch, — a stately and beautiful woman, 



PROSE. 327 

who bent with mingled smiles and tears over the 
young mother and her child, and blessed them with 
a full heart. This was Isabel Somers, the cousin 
of Mrs. Ashton, and the tried and true friend of 
her whole life. Isabel had been many years the 
wife of one who possessed every requisite to make 
lier happy ; wealth lavished its countless luxuries 
in her home, and on her person — love, the most 
devoted and untiring, was around her pathway, 
and her social and intellectual feelings alike met a 
ready response and sympathy — but one desire yet 
remained unsatisfied. Her spacious halls echoed 
not the sound of childhood's happy voice and merry 
laughter — - the deep fountains in her heart had 
never been stirred by the lisping tones or the soft 
embrace of one whose very life-blood was her 
own. ''Would that I, too, were a mother! " was 
the earnest prayer of her spirit, as she looked on 
the quiet yet intense happiness of her friends; 
and then inwardly reproaching herself for her 
secret envy, she returned, languid and dispirited, to 
her home. She entered her luxurious dwelling, so 
diflerent from the small and simple a.bode she had 
just quitted, and strove to forget, in her usual avo- 
cations, that scene of domestic felicity. But in vain 
she essayed to charm away those haunting thoughts 
by the spell of sweet sounds ; the notes were dis- 
cordant, for the soul of the musician was away. 
In vain her flowers blossomed and shed their fra- 
grance around her, and her birds strove by their 
sweetest songs to win her attention ; her ear listed, 
and her heart yearned, for a far dearer sound. 



328 PROSE. 

"Oj that I were but a mother!" she wildly ex-- 
claimed, as she dwelt more and more on the happi- 
ness of the Ash tons ; " gladly would I exchange 
wealth, ease and every luxury, hut to 'clasp to my 
heart a being to whom I had given birth, and to 
hear its first lisping accents murmur ^mother I ' " 

Days, weeks and months went by, and daily 
and hourly was that wish repeated, till it became 
an earnest aspiration, a fervent prayer ; • and then 
Isabel began to experience a new feeling, a sort of 
jealous envy towards the young cousin whom she 
had ever loved so dearly, and by degrees she dis- 
continued her visits there, for the sight of their 
deep, quiet enjoyment, made her very heart sick 
and weary. But, at length, her prayer was an- 
swered ; and in the twelfth year of her wedded life, 
Isabel Somers embraced her first-born son. There 
were tears in her deep, dark eyes, as she imprinted 
the first kiss of maternal affection on its smooth, 
round cheek, but they were tears of heartfelt joy 
and thanksgiving. This was the era in Isabel's 
Hfe. She had been happy as the only and idolized 
child of the most devoted parents — happy as the 
beautiful and gifted heiress, flattered and courted 
in the gay circles in which she moved — happy as 
the cherished wife of one who had been the play- 
mate of her childhood, and the beloved companion 
of her youth — but never, till now, had her felicity 
been perfect and entire. Time sped, and joyously 
it passed with the inmates of Somers House. The 
little Ernest grew in grace and beauty — each day 
developed some new infantine charm, and Isabel 



PROSE. 329 

was blest indeed. Home was now to her the cen- 
tre of all enjoyment. What to her ear were the 
warblings of the sweetest vocalist, compared with 
the faintest lisp of that loved one? 7— what to her 
eye the most graceful movement of the accom- 
plished danseuse, with the delight of watching its 
tiny feet, and training its feeble steps. 

Till Ernest attained his seventh year, he had 
enjoyed the most unbroken health, and his doting 
mother had often exulted in his bright eyes, rosy 
cheeks and agile movements ; but, about that time, 
a contagious disorder broke out among children. 
Among the first whom it attacked was the eldest 
child of the Ashtons, who, unlike Ernest Somers, 
Had always possessed a feeble constitution and deli- 
cate health; and, unable to resist the ravages of the 
disorder, he soon became its victim. From the 
time of his attack, Mrs. Somers had kept Ernest in 
strict seclusion ; but her cares were unavailing, for 
scarcely had the grave closed above his little play- 
fellow, when the young heir of Somers House was 
seized with the fever. Isabel was well-nigh dis- 
tracted. Mr^ Ashton, ever self-sacrificing, roused 
herself from the indulgence of her own sorrow, to 
administer consolation to her friend, whose less 
evenly balanced mind and ungoverned feelings so 
much required it. 

" Do not talk to me of patience and submission," 
cried Isabel, in reply to her cousin's gentle plead- 
ings; '' I cannot bow my heart to this stroke, and 
say, ' Thy will be done ! ' You cannot feel as I 
do; — you have lost your child, 't is true, but you 



330 psosE. 

have others left to fill his place, while I, if I lose 
him^ have no other hope, but shall be left alone, 
a}^, more than if he had never been given me ! 
But surely God cannot be so cruel, — he wil I not take 
my darling from me ! O, if he might but be spared 
to me, gladly would I suffer peril, pain, and priva- 
tion of every kind, — ay, death even, for what were 
life without him? I know I am a wicked, sinful 
creature, Margaret ; but if he is to die, I cannot, 
toill not survive him, — for how could I live when 
the sunshine and glory of my life had departed? " 

Alas ! how often does that which we crave as our 
chiefest blessing prove to be our bitterest curse ! 
At length the crisis of the disorder came. ^^ Must 
he die ! " murmured the trembling, despairing moth- 
er, in that low, sepulchral whisper, which sounds 
so fearfully in the silent chamber, to the kind and 
skilful man who bent over the couch of the little 
sufferer. 

''While there is life there is hope," was the 
reply; ''he appears now to be sinking into a quiet 
slumber, and Hf he lives till sunrise^'' he may yet 
recover." 

" Till sun7'ise,^^ slowly repeated, the mother; 
" and the sun is but just now setting." 

In vain did her friends seek to withdraw her 
from the room, and urge her to take some needful 
repose; for it was the ninth day of Ernest's ill- 
ness, and during all that time Isabel had scarcely 
ate, drank or slept — nor would she now. "If he 
lives, I would be the first to know it, — if he dies, 
mine must be the last look upon his living face." 



PROSE. 331 

The long, weary night passed away — the gray 
light of the morning dawned, and still that pale, 
anxious watcher, sat by the bedside of her child, 
with her dark, heavy eyes fixed earnestly on his 
small and wasted person, which lay listless and 
languid, and save his low, but now regular breath- 
ings, perfectly motionless. Once only her voice 
broke the silence, to whisper to an attendant a 
request that the shutters might be unclosed. The 
sun was just rising, and as its full, broad beams 
fell on the pillow of the child, he opened his large 
blue eyes, no longer bright with fever delirium, but 
clear and unclouded as that morning sky, and 
turning them, full of love and recognition, on the 
wan face of his mother, in a faint voice murmured 
her name. From that hour his recovery 'com- 
menced gradually but surely, and ere many weeks 
had elapsed, Isabel's heart was once more elate 
with joy. 

But the shadow of the Destroyer's presence had 
not yet vanished from her dwelling ; the uplifted 
sword fell, and Mr. Somers, the husband and 
father, was cut off in the prime of his existence. 
Yet he died not by the wasting of disease ; no pre- 
monitory warning was given, and his death fell 
like a thunderbolt on the hearts of his friends. He 
was taken ill in his counting-room, was carried 
home, and in a few hours expired, without having 
spoken to, or apparently even recognized, his wife 
or son. Not till his remains had been consigned to 
their kindred earth, was the cause of his death dis- 
covered. That morning, he had received letters 



332 PROSE. 

from abroad, and it was after perusing them that 
he was seized with the attack which terminated 
his Hfe. They proved, on examination, to contain 
tidings of the failure of some houses with which 
he had been so closely connected, that their down- 
fall involved his own. His fortune was completely 
wrecked ; and he had probably dwelt upon the situ- 
ation to which it must reduce his delicate and high- 
bred wife, and the fair boy to whose future emi- 
nence he had looked forward so proudly, till the 
revulsion proved too great for his highly wrought 
and sensitive nature to bear, and he had sunk 
beneath it. Thus in a brief space was Isabel 
Somers, the pampered child of luxury and fashion, 
left widowed and poor, to struggle through the 
world with the child of her idolatry, with nothing 
but a '■^ Tuother's hearV^ and a mother's never-dying 
love to sustain hei. Many wondered that one v/ho 
had always manifested so much devotion towards 
a husband as Isabel had done, should make so little 
outward demonstration of sorrow ; for in that light 
did they regard the simple mourning she had 
adopted, not as proportioned to the loss she had 
sustained, but as best suited to the straitened cir- 
cumstances in which she had been left. When all 
her affairs were adjusted, but a small portion 
remained of what had been a princely fortune; 
with Mr. Ash ton's assistance, this sum was safely 
invested, and a small, neat dwelling procured, not 
very far from the city, where Isabel was soon estab- 
lished with her boy. 

No sooner was she fairly settled in her new abode, 



PROSE. 333 

than, she set about the task of educating herself and 
Ernest. To many women this might have seemed 
no easy one ; but Isabel possessed a mind which 
needed only culture and strong moral action to ren- 
der it capable of comprehending and performing 
any duty to which she might be called. Her educa- 
tion, despite the disadvantages, if so they may be 
called, of rank, wealth and fashion, had not been 
superficial ; for Isabel had an insatiable love of read- 
ing, which, having been under the guidance of the 
fine mind and cultivated taste of her husband, now 
proved of inestimable value to her. She was well 
versed in the branches which comprise the usual 
routine of a good English education, joined to the 
usual stock of young lady accomplishments, and it 
was to obtain a thorough knowledge of languages, 
in which she was rather deficient, as well as of the 
higher and more abstruse studies with which it was 
.necessary that Ernest should be conversant, that she 
now set herself to work ; and with the strong stim- 
ulus of maternal love to urge her efibrts, who can 
doubt that she was successful ? The principal part 
of the day was devoted to Ernest's instruction, not 
neglecting those useful, though less carefully taught 
lessons which are to be found in green fields, singing 
birds,- blossoming flowers, and all beautiful things; 
but when he was at rest, then commenced Isabel's 
labors; and any of the villagers, who chanced 
to be out late at night, never failed to see the glim- 
mering light of the solitary lamp, in the little study- 
parlor of the cottage, which told that the love- 
inspired student was still at her tasks. Night after 
28 



334 PROSE. 

night, she sat dihgently poring over musty volumes, 
and storing her mind with the treasures of ancient 
and modern lore, ever and anon creeping stealthily 
into the adjoining hed-room, to look for a moment 
on the features of her sleeping idol, and then 
returning stimulated to still greater efforts. In 
order the better to economize her small income, 
and ^0 enable her to afford Ernest every gratifica- 
tion, as well as to excite in him a spirit of generous 
emulation, she received two pupils, the sons of old 
friends, by whom they were cheerfully committed 
to her care, to be prepared, in like manner with her 
own son, to enter the university. 

To accomplish this work was an arduous task 
— but what mother ever shrank from aught that 
would promote the happiness of her child 1 Cer- 
tainly not Isabel Sorners ! What mattered it to her 
that her cheek grew thin and pale, and her eye 
dim, or that many a silver thread mingled with her 
raven tresses — while she saw his stately figure 
developmg itself into , manly beauty — while' his 
dear voice was heard singing merrily about the 
house, and his clear, bright eyes beamed with love 
and happiness upon her 7 At length her task was 
completed. Ernest, accompanied by his mother, 
went to Cambridge, was examined, and admitted 
as a student in the university, while Isabel re- 
turned to her humble home, to devise and practise 
some additional method of economy, by which she 
might be enabled to furnish Ernest with the means 
to make as good an appearance as any of his fel- 
lows. In order to effect this, she dismissed her 



PROSE. 335 

only attendant, on the plea that she required some 
manual labor to counterbalance the effects of her 
sedentary life, and then set about preparing her 
simple meals and performing her household duties 
herself, for the first time in her life. She was 
urged to receive pupils again, but the grand stimu- 
lus was gone, and Isabel confessed herself unequal 
to the task ; but to^ add to the little fund, which the 
strictest frugality, and the entire absence of every 
little luxury to which she had been accustomed, 
enabled her to lay by for Ernest's wants, she con- 
sented to instruct a class of yc^ng ladies in the 
lighter accomplishments of the day. 

Little did Ernest dream, when he received his 
liberal allowance, of the toil and privations it had 
cost his mother to obtain it ! Yet she heeded it 
not. Willingly would she have coined her very 
heart's blood to afford him but an hour's gratifica- 
tion, and amply did she deem herself repaid by the 
tidings which reached her of his diligence and good 
conduct. "He is my all," she would say to the 
friends who remonstrated with her on the priva- 
tions to which she doomed herself; "and why 
should I not give my life even, if need be, to make 
him happy?" And when, in the vacations, he 
came home to her, still the same, only more manly, 
more kind and gentle, more like his dead father, it 
seemed as if her very heart would burst with 
excess of gladness. Then the cottage assumed a 
new face; during Ernest's visit, the little parlor 
was carefully arranged, the books he loved were 
laid on the tables, and flowers, of which he was 



386 PROSE. 

passionately fond, filled the room with fragrance^ 
and a proud and happy woman was Isabel when^ 
on the Sabbath, she walked to church, leaning on 
his arm, and looking up, with confiding affection, 
into his open, noble countenance. But those days 
were too bright to last ! When, at the close of his 
second collegiate year, Ernest returned home, as 
was his wont, he was accompanied by a fellow- 
student, to whom Isabel, as if instinctively, took an 
instant and fixed dislike. She remonstrated with 
her son, but for once her pleadings were in vain. 
Ernest had contracted a friendship for' the young 
•man, by one of those singular fatalities which 
sometimes draw together persons of entirely oppo- 
site tastes and dispositions. Pedro de Castigne was 
the son of a Spanish shipmaster, and a pale, gentle 
girl, whom he had half coaxed and half frightened 
into becoming his wife, and who died of a broken 
heart, when this her only child was but six months 
old. Since that time he had been under the pro- 
tection of his father, if such it could be termed ; — 
knocked about here and there, and gleaning now 
and then such information as could be obtained 
among a bold, piratical crew. But he was a 
shrewd, artful lad, and withal rather good-looking, 
with a bright face, and bold, black eyes ; and some 
benevolent gentleman, having taken an interest in 
his situation, had given him the means of study- 
ing, and finally procured him admission into the 
university, rightly presuming that his natural 
talents, combined with a good education, would 
enable him to make his way in the world, with 



PROSE. 337 

honor to himself, and credit to his benefactor. And 
so it might have been, had it been possible for 
Pedro to keep out of mischief; but his natural 
tendency to this, aided by his early culture, proved 
too strong to be resisted, and the^ consequence was, 
that he was not only continually in disgrace him- 
self, but he was ever drawing some easy and 
unsuspecting classmate into the same path. Such 
was the dangerous companion with whom Ernest 
Somers had linked himself; and when, at the close 
^f the vacation, he returned to Cambridge, Isabel 
bade her son farewell, with fearful forebodings of 
evil. 

The mother's v/orst fears were destined to be 
realized ! Soon after the commencement of the 
term, it began to be whispered about that mischief 
was brewing at Cambridge, and ere long the storm 
burst forth. Some atrocious act had been commit- 
ted ; the perpetrators were detected ; Pedro de Cas- 
tign^ was the ringleader, and high on the list stood 
the name of Ernest Somers. They were arraigned 
before the government of the college, the offence 
proved, and the delinquents expelled. Castigne 
departed, none knew whither, and Ernest returned 
to the abode of the stricken mother whom he had 
disgraced, and whose dearest hopes had been 
crushed and blighted. Nor did the trouble end 
here. Had Ernest returned, like the prodigal of 
old, humbled and contrite, conscious of his sin, and 
pleading for forgiveness, Isabel felt that she could 
have borne it better. But it was not so. He had 
grown sullen and morose ; he mocked at her tears, 
28=^ 



338 PROSE. 

and turned contemptuously from her gentle plead- 
ings ; and the temper which she had ever deemed 
mild and even proved to have been but a slumber- 
ing lion, which, chafed and irritated by the battle 
which had been done, now rushed forth in violent 
fury, to destroy all who came in its way. His 
mother could gain no information from him relat- 
ing either to the riot in which he had been con- 
cerned, or to his friend, the notorious de Castigne; 
but that Ernest received frequent letters from him, 
she could not doubt. At length, one evening, con- 
trary to his wont, he remained at home, and the 
mother's heart bounded with joy once more, to see 
him take his seat opposite her at the round table, 
where he had been accustomed to sit in those 
happy days when she was his teacher, companion 
and friend. There was a softness in his eyes 
which had not been there before for many a long, 
weary day, and a tenderness in his voice as he 
bade her good night, that made her heart thrill as 
it had done in by-gone days, and called up a smile 
of pleasure to her pale, wan face. Poor Isabel ! 
that smile was her last ! She retired to rest that 
night with a lighter heart than she had done for 
many months, for she had hope that her erring 
child might yet be reclaimed. " He will be once 
more as in those blessed days, and ^e shall be so 
happy." With this delightful anticipation she 
arose refreshed on the ensuing morning, and 
entered the parlor, confidently expecting the morn- 
ing greeting from Ernest; but he was not there, 
neither was he in his bed-room, or in the garden. 



PEOSE. 339 

He returned not that day, and after nearly a week 
of intolerable suspense, a letter came, which told 
the heart-sick mother that her darling son, whom 
she had nurtured so tenderly, scarcely allowing the 
rough winds to blow upon him, had taken passage 
as a common sailor, in a vessel bound for a long 
voyage to a distant land. He expressed no contri- 
tion for the past, gave no promise of amendment 
for the future ; and now indeed was the last ray of 
hope extinguished- in that mother's heart ! 

From that hour Isabel Somers was a changed 
woman. For many days no one saw her ; the 
cottage windows were closed, no smoke ascended 
from the chimneys, and there was an air of cheer- 
lessness and desolation about the whole place. But 
on the succeeding Sabbath the lonely widow was 
seen slowly proceeding to church, and the few 
who ventured to steal a look at her, were shocked 
to see the ravages that short season of sorrow had 
made. Her stately figure was bowed, not with the 
weight of years ; her hair, which had been remark- 
able for its redundant beauty, had grown thin and 
gray ; and the large, dark eyes, which had capti- 
vated many hearts with their soft brilliancy, had 
now an expression of intense melancholy, which 
saddened even the most indifferent beholder. Yet 
none approached her with "the poor common 
words of charity" and consolation, for there was a 
sort of gentle, quiet dignity about her sorrow 
which forbade, the intrusion. That day, with a 
bowed and broken spirit, Isabel laid herself, with 
all her griefs and heart-aches, at the feet of Jesus, 



340 PROSE. 

and received comfort and support in her afflic- 
tions. 

j^ •Hj' -ih -ilr -^ ^ 

'T^ ^ •TV" T^ -TV -TV" 

Two years passed wearily and heavily away, 
although Isabel had gained a greater degree of 
calmness and resignation than she had dared to 
hope for, and then came another and more terrible 
shock. The crew of the ship in which Ernest and 
his mad companion had embarked, irritated by 
some harsh usage from the commander, and insti- 
gated by de Castigne, had mutinied and turned 
pirates ; they had been captured by a vessel and 
brought into port, and Ernest was now in prison, 
awaiting his trial. Not a moment did Isabel hesi- 
tate with regard to the course she should pursue. 
To go to him, to comfort and console him, to 
remain with him during the dreadful period of his 
confinement, was the course which her heart 
prompted, and, agonized as she was, she set forth, 
alone, to seek the poor criminal. Dreading lest 
she should meet some old familiar face among the 
numerous passers in the well-known streets, Isabel, 
on her entrance into the city, procured a cheap 
conveyance to take her to the prison. On her way 
she passed the splendid dv/elling which had been 
her home in happier days ; lights were glancing in 
the windows of what had been her nursery, and at 
the sight came rushing back the memories of the 
past, soon to be dispelled by the fearful realities of 
the present. The vehicle stopped at the iron gate 
of the prison, and having obtained permission of 
the keeper, Isabel was conducted through the dis- 



PROSE. 341 

mal stone galleries, and down flights of steps into 
the damp corridor leading to the cells ; and her 
guide having unbarred the iron door and removed 
the massive bolts, she was ushered into the pres- 
ence of her guilty son. For a moment she regarded 
him in horror-struck silence, while he, unable to 
recognize in the wan, gray-haired woman before 
him, the stately and handsome woman from whom 
1^ had parted less than three years before, stood 
before her, bending upon her a glance so fierce 
that she shrank before it. '' Ernest!" she at 
length faltered forth, and with a faint, wild cry, 
the miserable man fell at her feet, and pressed to 
his ashy lips, convulsively, the hem of his mother's 
garment. During his confinement on shipboard, 
and since, in that lonely cell, his mind had re- 
turned to its natural state; for strangely had it 
been perverted in its intercourse with the reckless 
and dissolute Pedro de Castigne. Horror and 
remorse had taken the place of the wild, fierce des- 
peration which had led him on to the cruel and 
terrible deeds in which he had been an actor. He 
was again gentle and childlike, and listened with 
tearful earnestness to the tender words of his grief- 
worn mother, as she urged him to seek forgiveness 
where he had most deeply sinned. With tears of 
heartfelt penitence did he confess and mourn over 
his apostasy and downfall. He spoke with shud- 
dering horror of the dreadful crimes which he had 
committed, and lamented with bitter, though una- 
vailing sorrow, over the untimely and disgraceful 
doom to which he had consigned himself; he, who 



342 PROSE. 

had been so highly gifted, so carefully instructed ! 
His mother sought to soothe him with kindly 
VvTords, and promises from Sacred Writ, and at 
length, wearied and exhausted, he sank into a pro- 
found slumber, with his head pillowed on his 
mother's knee. "And is this," thought Isabel, as 
she gazed on his sleeping face, "is this the babe for 
whose birtii I so longed — the fair child by whose 
sick bed I knelt in agony, and so earnestly prayed 
for his life, — the noble boy to whose nurture and 
instruction I devoted the best years of my life, — 
the manly youth whom I looked up to as the 
future support of my declining years? . Yet oh 
how much dearer is he now than ever he was in 
the brightest days of his prosperity ! " 

The remainder of my story is painful, but it 
shall be very brief. Isabel remained with her 
wretched son till he was brought to trial. She 
stood near him at the bar, and listened in fearful 
suspense to those on whose words hung life and 
death. She nerved herself to bear the worst, and 
heard with unblanched cheek the sentence which 
doomed her only son to the scaffold. She returned 
with him to the dungeon, from whence he was to 
emerge once more, to become the gaze and talk of 
a vast and heartless multitude; she clasped his 
cold hand, and bade him farewell for the last time 
on earth ; she heard the shout which told her that 
all was over, that she was a lonely, childless 
widow, and then her sight grew dim — she remem- 
bered nothing further ! 

In a remote corner of the little church-yard iu 



PROSE. 343 

the village where she had passed so many cheq- 
uered years, did Isabel consign her son to his last 
dreamless sleep ! She heard the clods rattle on 
the coffin, saw the earth heaped upon what had 
been her idol, and then returned to her home, deso- 
late indeed ! But not long did the weary spirit 
remain in bondage. Ere the grass had grown on 
the grave of Ernest Somers, his broken-hearted 
mother was laid by his side. 

Peaceful be thy slumber, thou martyr to mater- 
nal love ! and in that better land to which thou 
didst fondly point him^ mayest thou meet thy poor 
wanderer, ransomed from sin, and washed white 
in the blood of his Redeemer ! 

Reader, 'tis an ow're true tale! I have drawn 
my characters from life. Nor is Isabel Somers the 
only mother who has seen her dearest hopes thus 
crushed and blighted, as many a poor, stricken 
heart will bear me witness ; but never, thank God, 
has storm or blight, disgrace, or even death, had 
power to dim or quench the lamp which burns 
on ever, with holy and steady light, from the cra- 
dle to the grave, through all chances and changes, 
in the true mother's heart ! 



344 



PROSE. 



THE AULD WIFE. 

" John Anderson, my Jo, John, 

We 've clomb life's hill thegither, 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We 've had with ane anither ; 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we '11 go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my Jo." 



How often has that beautiful and touching old 
ballad of Burns' risen from my heart to my lips, 
as I have witnessed the devotion of old Hannah 
Evans to her still more aged and infirm husband ; 
the quickness with which she discerned his slight- 
est wants, the alacrity with which she ministered 
to them, her gentleness, and the numberless little 
kindnesses she seems to delight in bestowing ! To 
me, her unwearied love and devotion seem to dif- 
fuse a bright '' light''^ amid the numerous shadows 
that darken woman's life ; and so I am tempted to 
pen a sketch, which, imperfect though it be, may 
perhaps convey to you some idea of one who is 
deserving of far higher praise than this simple 
tribute to her excellence. 

Hannah Lee was the youngest child and the 
only daughter of parents who were born, bred, and 
married, and who hoped to live and die, in the 
same quiet village. They dwelt in a venerable 
cottage, weather-stained and moss-roofed, near the 
church ; for, in addition to his peculiar calling, (he 
was a carpenter,) old James Lee had succeeded 
his father as village sexton. Beneath that lowly 
roof he had received life : it had been the scene of 



PROSE. 345 

ills boyish pleasures, and thither, in the first prime 
of manhood, he had borne from a similar dwell- 
ing his bride, a fair, meek, village maiden, with 
no dowry save virtue and affection. There, for 
many years, had they dwelt together, — poor and 
humble, it is true, but blessed with tranquillity 
and happiness such as gladdens few wealthy hab- 
itations. They were healthy and industrious, 
their children were good and well-behaved, and 
they felt that they had no cause to murmur. 

Their sons grew up tall, sturdy youths, and, 
possessing the genuine spirit of Yankee enterprise, 
they left their quiet village to " seek their fortunes" 
amid more stirring scenes. Hannah remained at 
home, a fine, healthy, well-grown lass, who, among 
the rustic youths at Heathside, bore the enviable 
reputation of a beauty — a title which would doubt- 
less have shocked the refined ideas of modern, lisp- 
ing city beaux, and fragile, pale-faced, wasp-waisted 
belles, could they have seen Hannah Lee's plump, 
ruddy cheeks, with which the sun and the rain 
had taken unwarrantable liberties, — her full, ripe 
lips, (rather too full and too wide to be likened to 
a cleft cherry,) — and her well-developed figure, 
which gave ample evidence that it had never suf- 
fered from compression or whalebones, or any 
other bones, save those which Nature had given 
her, and which might possibly have weighed down 
one or two dapper young gentlemen of the present 
day (this is only a rough guess.) But Hannah 
had a pair of merry blue eyes, and an abundance 
of tastefuIly-arraDged hair, which a poet or a 
29 



346 PROSE. 

painter, or some such out-of-the-way genus^ mighty 
perhaps, have raved ahout, and hkened it to that 
of Ahston's Beatrice, or to the tresses of Petrarch's 
Laura, or some equally renowned personage; but 
the unsophisticated farmer-lads of Heathside had 
probably never heard of these ladies, famed in 
Italian song, — so they unceremoniously called it 
red hair, and only admired its graceful braids, and 
large, natural curls ; and some few were found 
who were^ so completely devoid of taste as to say 
"Hannah Lee would be pretty if it were not for her 
hair ! " But there were few who did not love and 
admire her ; and so, if any one dared hazard such 
an envious remark, they were generally silenced 
by the reply that "she roas pretty, in sj)ite of her 
hair," And, alas for modern nerves ! how would' 
they haye been utterly annihilated by Hannah 
Lee's merry-ringing laugh ! For in those days 
it was not considered ill-bred to give vent to one's 
exuberance of mirthful feeling in a good hearty 
laugh; or, if it were, the code of fashionable eti- 
quette had not reached the primitive village of 
Heathside. But be that as it might, certain it is 
that Hannah's laugh was sweet music in the ears 
of thosp who loved her, and made the old walls of 
the cottage ring, and the hearts of her aged parents 
leap with joy and gladness. A happy creature 
was Hannah Lee, — ay, and a good and kind one, 
too ! — with a leal and by no means narrow heart; 
for she found plenty of room in its numerous cor- 
ners and crevices for a host of friends, and as she 
grew to woman's estate, she discovered that there 



PROSE. 347 

was still abundant room for another occupant — 
and who was this to be? Among the village beaux 
to whom she was the centre of attraction at husk- 
in gs, quiltings, and singing-school, Hannah had 
early given the preference to John Evans, the vil- 
lage blacksmith, a tall, robust, good-looking youth, 
— just such a one, I fancy, as Longfellow must 
have had in his mind when he wrote that admirable 
description of the son of Yulcan. John was steady, 
industrious, and well-principled, and it was uni- 
versally acknowledged that he and Hannah were 
every way worthy of each other. It was not the 
fashion then, as now, for a couple, after a few 
weeks' or, it may be, months' acquaintance, to go 
to the altar, knowing as little of each others' char- 
acters and tempers as on the first day they met ; 
and so John and Hannah plodded through a three 
years' courtship, which, humdrum as it may appear 
to us, seemed perfectly proper, and was undoubt- 
edly very agreeable, to them. " The course of 
their true love" ran perfectly smooth, and there 
was every prospect of their being married, without 
any obstacle interfering to impede their progress. 
Hannah's preparations were all made; a small cot- 
tage had been rented, only a few minutes' walk 
from her maiden home; they had been regularly 
cried in church on three successive Sabbaths, and 
the next week was appointed for their wedding, 
when a shadow (alas ! that such there be !) dark- 
ened their pathway. Suddenly and without warn- 
ing, old James Lee was struck with palsy; and a 
second stroke rapidly succeeding the first, deprived 



348 PROSE. 

the old man of the use of his hmhs, and the village 
of its sexton, while his wife was afflicted with an 
inflammation in her eyes, which impaired her sight, 
and threatened eventually to destroy it altogether. 
Hannah's wedding Avas necessarily delayed ; and 
when, after a lapse of several weeks, she found that 
her father's helplessness continued, and her mother 
was totally blind, after tearful meditation and ear- 
nest prayer, she concluded to release John from 
his engagement. With as much calmness and com- 
posure as she could command, she made known 
her decision to her lover. 

"And why, Hannah, should this misfortune 
separate us now, any more than if it had happened 
after our marriage? I am well and strong, and 
able to work ; let your parents remove with us to 
our cottage, and I doubt not that, with the help of 
God, I shall be enabled to support you all." 

" Nay, John, this must not be ! That you could 
and %Dould do all this, I do not doubt; and had this 
misfortune fallen on us after our union, I could 
only have resigned myself to the stroke, and assist-* 
ed you to bear the additional burthen. But I see 
the hand of God in this dispensation ; — I too am 
able and willing to work, and it will be alike my 
duty and my pleasure to live and toil for my aged 
and helpless parents. I alone must bear the bur- 
den he has laid upon me, and fitted me to endure. 
Time will soon efface from your mind, dear John, 
all painful recollections, and you will find some 
one equally well calculated as I am to make you 
happy." 



PROSE. 349 

John plead warmly, but Hannah had nerved 
herself to meet every argument, and finally they 
parted. John strove two or three times to renew 
his suit, hut it was unavailing ; and unable to live 
amid the scenes that continually recalled his dis- 
appointment, he at length gave up his occupation, 
and departed for the West. Hannah was now left 
alone to toil for her aged parents, to cheer with 
her smiles the sadness of the helpless one, and 
to brighten with love and kindly words the 
gloom of her who sat in perpetual darkness. She 
knew, if her brothers were acquainted with their 
circumstances, they would be ready and willing to 
assist her ; but she was also aware that they had 
now families of their own, and she would not call 
on them for aid. Hannah was an excellent seam- 
stress, and found no difficulty in obtaining work ; 
and her mother, who, as her sight grew dim, had 
applied herself diligently to knitting, was enabled 
to ply her needles as rapidly and skilfully as before 
her deprivation. This employment answered a 
double purpose, relieving the depression and melan- 
choly which would naturally have resulted from 
continued idleness, and also affording pleasure by 
enabling her to add her mite towards the sup- 
port of the family. While Hannah and her mother 
were thus engaged, the old man sat in his great 
easy-chair by the window, and with the Bible out- 
spread on a little stand before him, read to his 
companions from the pages of Holy Writ. Thus 
all were employed ; and they soon grew to be, if . 
not happy, at least cheerful and content. And did 
29^< 



350 PROSE. 

Hannah experience no regretful feelings, as she sat 
therebetween her stricken parents — no yearning 
after the happiness which might have been her 
portion as the wife of John Evans 7 Did the 
memories of the past never rise up and haunt her, 
and fill her soul with their subduing and saddening 
influence? Of this we cannot say;-— no mention 
was made of his name by her parents, and only 
twice did Hannah manifest any emotion on hear- 
ing it from stranger lips ; once, when an oflicious 
gossip of the village brought the tidings of John's 
departure, and again, when the same busy-body 
announced his marriage with the daughter of a 
New England emigrant. The first had well-nigh 
called forth an exclamation; but when the last 
came, she had no power to speak, — she felt the 
blood recede from her cheek to her heart, and there 
was a choking sensation in her throat, which she 
could not master. But that spasm passed away, 
and whatever might have been her inward strug- 
gles, there was no visible sign that it had affected 
her, if we except a calmer and less mirthful 
demeanor. 

For nearly two years she toiled on, with unre- 
mitting industry, the pride and admiration of the 
village; and more than one had sought to share 
the arduous duties she had undertaken, for "so 
dutiful a daughter," they reasoned, "could not fail 
to make a good wife." But Hannah steadily 
resisted all importunities; she had borne to part 
with the first loved, and it required no exertions to 
refuse other proposals. But ere the second year of 



PROSE. 351 

hor filial self-devotion had expired, a third stroke 
of palsy carried the old man to his grave, and 
Hannah's whole attention was how directed to her 
remaining parent. But the old woman missed the 
companion of forty years ; she listened in vain for 
the sound of his voice, reading and praying, and 
joining its tremulous tones with Hannah's in the 
evening hymn. She could no longer apply herself 
to her knitting, for her thoughts would wander 
back to those by-gone years of happiness, her work 
would drop upon her knee, and thus she would sit 
listlessly for hours, while Hannah strove in vain to 
rouse her. She did not long survive the aged part- 
ner of her pilgrimage, and they lie side by side in 
the village grave-yard, within a stone's throw of 
the spot where they were born, lived and died ! 
Hannah was now left entirely alone. Her brothers 
offered her a home in their families ; but she could 
not bear to leave the village, where every spot 
teemed' with associations to her mind ; and at their 
request, she became a member of the family of a 
friend of her parents. A year passed away, and 
Hannah was again tranquil, and comparatively 
happy, when John Evans returned to Heathside, 
a widower. He reopened his old shop, resumed 
his business, and called upon Hannah Lee. The 
substance of their first interview was kept carefully 
in their own bosoms; but John's visits became fre- 
quent, and ere the lapse of many months, it all 
resulted in Hannah Lee's becoming the wife of the 
widowed lover of her youth. The cottage which 
would have been their home had their marriage 



352 PROSE. 

taken place three years before had now another 
occupant ; but the old house by the church, which 
had been the home of her father, and her father's 
father, the scene of all her childish joys and sor- 
rows, and the trials of her maturer years, was now 
vacant, and it soon became Hannah's bridal abode, 
and the home of her wedded life. 

Time passed, and fortune smiled upon the vil- 
lage blacksmith and his wife: a group of rosy, 
happy children clustered around their hearth, and 
filled the house with music. They had been 
enabled to purchase the old homestead, and an 
adjoining field, which afibrded pasture to the cow, 
while in the yard might be heard the cackling of 
Hannah's poultry ; for her nice, yellow butter, and 
fresh eggs, found a ready market in the adjoining 
town, and thus added to the store which they 
were laying up against a rainy day. That day 
came at last ! Twice seven years of happiness rolled 
away, and then the surly dame Misfortune, as if 
envious of their prosperity, dashed the cup from 
their lips, and substituted her own in its stead. 
The first stroke fell, and from a quarter whence it 
was least expected. John Evans, now in the prime 
of life, had become a person of no small import- 
ance in his native village. Since his marriage, he 
had beguiled the long winter evenings by reading 
books, which Avere loaned him by the minister, 
himself a deep-read and intellectual man, though 
lowly in heart, and content to pass his life among 
the humble people with whom his lot had been 
cast. In this manner, and by the conversation of 



PROSE. 353 

travellers, who, in passing through the village, 
always stopped to gaze at and admire his brawny, 
muscular person, and the intelligence which beamed 
forth from his face, spite of the smoke and dirt 
with which it was begrimmed, he had gathered a 
considerable store of information. But the reading 
in which he most delighted was the history of his 
own country, and he felt the patriotic fire kindle in 
his veins, and his blood thrill, as he read of her 
noble struggles for independence, and her final glo- 
rious triumph ! Of this subject he never tired ; his 
voice grew strong, and his step proud, as he des- 
canted upon it, and he often regretted that he had 
not been old enough in those days to bear a musket, 
and go forth to the fight. About this time, the last 
war, in which so many now living were engaged, 
broke out, and parties were out in different sections 
of the country in search of recruits. Heathside 
did not pass unscathed; a small detachment of 
soldiers took up their quarters at the village inn, 
and stirred up the martial spirit in the breasts of 
the male portion of the community. Many a sturdy 
youth exchanged the plough for the musket, and 
the coarse blue frock for the knapsack, and Avent 
forth to the conflict, from which, perchance, he 
might never return ! Day after day the recruiting 
sergeant might be seen at John Evans' forge, pour- 
ing into his listening ear tales of wild adventure, 
and all the charms of a soldier's life. The black- 
smith was fascinated, and his wife distressed ; and 
it was no surprise, though a terrible shock, when 
John informed her that he had enlisted. Tears, 



354 PROSE. 

expostulations and entreaties, were alike in vain ; 
his mind was filled with visions of glory, and he 
panted to go forth, to fight and conquer. My 
memory does not extend back to that time, but I 
have heard my mother speak of the sorrow that 
pervaded the village the day the recruits marched 
out. Wives clung to their departing husbands; 
parents implored their sons not to desert them; 
maidens gazed, half dead with terror, on the lovers 
who might never return to redeem their vows ; and 
children, ignorant of their own loss, wept in sym- 
pathy with their distressed parents ; while the sound 
of drum and fife, playing merrily the national air, 
rung in their ears like the death-knell of all they 
loved. Alas ! how few of that goodly company 
returned with unbroken constitutions and un- 
maimed limbs to their homes ! 

There is an old saying, that " misfortunes never 
come singly," and the blacksmith's family seemed 
to verify the truth of the remark. Soon after the 
departure of the recruits, a contagious disorder 
appeared among children, and the young Evans' 
wxre not, exempt from its effects. The youngling 
of the flock passed from the home where her pres- 
ence had been as sunshine, and those who braved 
the disorder were long confined to the house. The 
attentions they required were so unremitting, that 
Mrs. Evans was obliged to neglect her other affairs ; 
and when at length her family were restored to 
health, then came the long apothecary's bill, and 
other numerous expenses necessarily incurred, and 
she was obliged to sell, first her cow, and then 



PROSE. 355 

the field, which her industry had helped to buy. 
The homestead alone remained ; and to retain this, 
Hannah was obliged to rally all her energies. She 
had always been famed for her skill as a laundress, 
and she found no difficulty in obtaining employ- 
ment in that vocation. Her eldest girl assisted her, 
and twice a week went to the next town with a 
little wicker car, such as is now used to draw 
infants, and thus brought the soiled clothes, and 
carried back the clean ones. The two eldest boys 
hired themselves out to farmers during the summer- 
months, and went to school in the winter, and the 
third went to the parsonage to do errands and the 
light chores ; while the youngest girl braided straw 
for a manufactory in an adjacent town, an occupa- 
tion in which her mother and sister shared when 
the heavier labors of the day were over. All this 
was a considerable help, though, in order to keep 
her children at school every winter, and to clothe 
them neatly, Mrs. Evans was obliged to toil unre- 
mittingly ; but she never repined, and would have 
been comparatively happy, but for her disquietude 
concerning her husband. Since the first six months 
of his absence, she had heard nothing from him. 
The war had long been ended, and many of the 
recruits had returned ; but they brought no intelli- 
gence of John Evans, for soon after their arrival 
at head-quarters he had been placed in a difierent 
regiment, and they, knew nothing of his future 
fate. 

Five years — the time for which he had enlisted ^^ 
expired ; and one hot, sultry day in August, Han- 



356 PROSE. 

nah stood ironing at her long deal table ; her eldest 
daughter was busily plaiting raffles at one end, 
and at the other, by the open casement, sat Hetty, 
the younger girl, trimming a straw bonnet, when 
the latter, looking up, saw a lame, weary and 
apparently broken-down man, crossing the road 
that led to the cottage. He paused a moment at 
the wicket gate, and looked wistfully round ; then 
hobbled up the gravel-path, and before Hetty's sur- 
prise and curiosity would allow her to speak, he 
was at the door. ''Who can he be?'' she ex- 
claimed, as she rose to open it; and her mother and 
sister lifted their eyes from 'their work just as the 
man inquired, after regarding the girl intently for 
an instant, if Mrs. Hannah Evans had removed. 
One sound of that voice was enough; scarred, 
seamed and mutilated, as he was, the eye and ear 
of love were too keen to be deceived, and Hannah, 
with tears of joy, welcomed her husband once 
more to his home. The nev/s of his return spread 
like wildfire through, the village. John, the eldest 
son, now an apprentice in the shop where his 
father had formerly been master, threw down the 
huge sledge-hammer, and v/ithout waiting to throw 
off his leather apron, or even to wash his face and 
hands, ran with the speed of lightning homewards. 
James hurried from the fields, and Bob heard the 
news in the distant meadow, where he was cutting 
peat, and darted off, hatless and barefooted, to greet 
the long-absent and deeply-mourned father. All 
work was suspended for that afternoon. The, wan- 
derer was worn with travel and hunger; so the 



PEOSE. 357 

tea-table was set, with the strong and refreshing 
beverage^ good home-made bread, potatoes and 
smoking rashers of bacon, and never met a happier 
group than that which gathered around the hum- 
ble, but well-spread board, in the cottage of John 
and Hannah Evans. When the table was cleared, 
and the family were seated in the "best room," 
inhaling the fresh air that came through the open 
casements, rendered more fragrant by its passage 
through the honeysuckles which climbed even to 
the lowly roof, how eagerly did they listen to all 
the father had to relate of his adventures since he 
left them! The recital, however, occupied but lit- 
tle time, great as his sufferings had been. He had 
been taken prisoner in a skirmish, after a stout 
resistance, and for many months had languished in 
an English prison, in a cold, damp cell, which had 
the effect, most certainly, of damping his martial 
spirit, and making him sigh most heartily for the 
comforts of his own happy fireside, and the society 
of his wife and children. Thus deprived alike of 
the companionship of his own race and of books, 
cramped up in the narrow hmits of his cell, pining 
for fresh air and active exercise, sick and despond- 
ing, he remained till the declaration of peace and 
an exchange of prisoners set him at liberty to 
return to the army. But the spirit which had for- 
merly incited him was now quelled or dormant, 
and but for the disgrace which must accrue to his 
family as well as to himself, he would certainly 
have deserted. , With a heavy and cheerless heart, 
he toiled on. He wrote several letters, but received 
30 



358 PROSE. 

no answer, which added to his dejection; and when 
at length his time of service was at an end, he was 
unfit to commence his journey home. His illness 
increased, and he was taken to the hospital ; and 
after lingering there for several weeks, he was dis- 
charged, and set off on foot for his native village. 
How different from the hale and hearty man who 
had gone forth full of health and vigor, was he 
who returned with his head whitened, though not 
by the snows of three-score winters, foot-sore, and 
lame from the effect of wounds, which had been 
aggravated by neglect, and so changed that none 
but the true and loving wife could, have recognized 
him! 

But now he was again at home^ surrounded by 
comfort and by the dear ones for whose presence 
he had so yearned ; and for that night, at least, all 
care and regrets were given to the wind. As 
soon as he was rested from his fatigue, John began 
to seek employment. He was gladly hired as fore- 
man in the shop where he had formerly been mas- 
ter, and for several months he wrought at the forge 
as diligently as in the days of his youth. But as 
the winter advanced, a chronic disease, engen- 
dered by prison-damps and want of proper food 
and exercise, attacked him, paralyzed his limbs, 
and utterly disabled him for work. Again John 
was cast down, and again Hannah rallied all her 
powers to cheer him. 

''Don't fret, John dear!" she would say; "we 
have still the old house over our heads, I have my 
health and strength and plenty to do, and our chil- 



PROSE. 359 

dren — God bless them! — are able not only to sup- 
port themselves, but to add something weekly to 
the common stock ; and sure I am, neither of them 
would ever see us want. Think how many of our 
neighbors are poorer than we. There is old Janet 
Lewis, with neither chick nor child, compelled to 
seek an asylum for her old age in the almshouse ; 
and Robert Lane, shaking with palsy, and no wife 
or daughter to take care of him, and see that he is 
kept clean and comfortable. Indeed, John, we 
have a great deal to be thankful for." And John 
would assent to all she said, and reproach himself 
for murmuring. It was not in the nature of such 
a man to sit idle and inactive, and he soon set 
about laying plans for gaining, at least, his own^ 
subsistence. He tried to devise some way in 
which he could assist his wife, but failed ; and at 
last he hit on an expedient which he thought 
might be rendered feasible. He possessed consid- 
erable ingenuity ; and his sons having procured, at 
his request, some blocks of wood, he had his arm- 
chair wheeled to the window, and began to carve 
out boys with his jack-knife. When Hetty went 
to town the next week, he commissioned her to 
take them to a toy-shop, and see if the master 
could dispose of them. She did so, and was suc- 
cessful ; arid the shopkeeper told her if these met 
with a ready sale, he would employ her father 
constantly. The articles were soon found to be 
saleable, and John had as much as he could do to 
answer the demand. Employment and indepen- 
dencej humble as it was, soon restored him to 



360 PROSE. 

cheerfulness, and he ceased to repine at his afflic- 
tions. 

Many years have passed away since we first 
introduced the reader to the old brown cottage, and 
it has still much the same appearance, save that 
the velvet moss lies thicker and heavier on the 
roof, and the woodbine and honeysuckle hang in 
richer profusion around the casements; but the 
inmates have not been exempt from the general 
law of change. The eldest son is now proprietor 
of the blacksmith's shop, and is married to his 
master's daughter; the second, James, is settled on 
a small farm in the outskirts of the village, and 
Robert, the youngest, who always loved books 
better than either work or play, is usher in the 

grammar-school of B , with a prospect of 

being some day at the head of the institution. 
Hetty, too, the lady of the family, as all the villa- 
gers call her, and as she doubtless esteems herself, 
is the wife of a city merchant, and lives in style in 
the metropolis ; and Sarah alone — the good, kind, 
gentle Sarah, the "elder sister" — lives at home, 
a quiet, contented, happy old maid, with appar- 
ently not a wish beyond the walls of the humble 
cottage where she was born. Old John Evans 
still sits in his accustomed seat, the old arm-chair 
by the window, with a placid smile upon his wan 
face ; but his fingers are no longer busy with the 
knife and wood ; — his hands rest listlessly on his 
knees, and there is a vacancy in his look, as he 
turns his head from side to side, when any one 



PROSE. 361 

addresses him, to ascertain in what direction they 
are. Another affliction has fallen upon him, and 
John Evans is bUnd ! But he has learnt resigna- 
tion, and many a lesson of wisdom do his aged lips 
impart to those around him. And old Hannah 
Evans ! It is long since she was introduced to our 
readers, and few of them, I fancy, would be able 
to recognize in her now the original of the portrait 
then drawn. The snows of three score winters 
have thinned and whitened the auburn locks of her 
youth, and they are put carefully back, beneath 
a simple muslin cap. Time has ploughed furrows, 
many and deep, on the once broad, smooth brow 
and the ruddy cheek, from which the peach- 
bloom tint has also departed ; the merry light has 
faded from her eyes, but in its place they wear an 
expression of calm, chastened and serious thought. 
Her once tall, plump figure is attenuated and 
bowed with the weight of years and sorrow; and a 
rheumatic affection, which has settled in her hip, 
produces constant and intense pain. 

Yet amid all her sufferings it is a beautiful and 
touching sight to witness her devotion to her hus- 
band, who, as she says, is even more afflicted than 
herself No attention that she can possibly pay 
him will she allow her daughter to render ; for his 
sake, in the midst of her sharpest pangs, when her 
whole frame quivers, and her brow is knit with 
agony, she represses the slightest groan or ex- 
clamation ; and could he see, I really believe she 
would obtain sufficient command over the muscles 
of her face to prevent even a look of anguish, lest 
30=^ 



362 PROSE. 

it should pain the beloved one. Her own hands 
prepare his simple food, and administer it too ; for 
so helpless has he become, that he is obliged to be 
dressed, washed, and fed like a child ; and when 
these offices are performed, and she has combed 
his long silver locks, and parted them smoothly on 
his broad, high forehead, she seats herself at his 
side, and with the Bible on the stand before her, 
knits and reads at the same time. And on the 
pleasant Sabbaths in summer, when Sarah has 
gone to church, she seats him in his chair by his 
favorite window, beneath which she has planted 
the flower he loves best, and with little glass vases 
filled with blossoms, and a box of mignonette on 
the window-seat, she places herself beside him, 
and they talk cheerily of the past, with its many 
memories, sad or pleasant. They recount all the 
incidents of their childish days, when they played 
together, — of their pleasant days of courtship, and 
all the years of mingled trial and happiness they 
have spent together since they were wedded ; they 
speak of the blessings they enjoy in such good and 
loving children, and in the reverence and afiection 
of their grandchildren; and they look forward 
with calm, quiet joy to the time when they shall 
sleep together in the green church-yard, which is 
ever within their view, and which is to them no 
darksome place, but a pleasant passage to a 
brighter and better world. Thus, with no vain 
regrets for the past, and no idle fears for the future, 
they look cheerily forward to the close of their 
earthly pilgrimage, with but one prayer, that when 



PROSE. 363 

the sun sets upon the death-bed of the one, it may 
never rise upon the Hving survivor. 

I am well aware that I have not done justice to 
the original in this feeble sketch, but I could not 
resist the temptation to pay at least this small 
tribute to her virtues ; and with this for a ground- 
work, let the reader picture to herself a true- 
hearted woman, '' faithful unto the end" in every 
vocation to which she is called — one from whom 
many a young wife, — ay, and many an old too, — 
might learn useful lessons of meekness, forbear- 
ance, gentleness, kindness and earnest love; an 
embodiment of all that is beautiful and good, and 
pure and true, in woman, and then christen your 
ideal, the faithful auld wife — Hannah Evans. 



CHRONICLES AND SKETCHES OF 
HAZLEHURST. 

A bird's-eye view of the town. 

Dear reader, are you a lover of country life and 
scenery, of green fields, and shady lanes, and sing- 
ing brooks ? If you are not, I shall be sadly dis- 
appointed ; for I have made up my mind that we 
shall agree charmingly. If you are, why then, of 
course, you v/ill not refuse to let me sit down 
cozily at your feet, and gossip to you now and 
then about people and events, past and present, in 
our village, — I beg its pardon for the misnomer, — 
Hazlehurst is, by act of incorporation, and with 
every one's consent, a town ; who knows how soon, 



364 PROSE. 

in the present rapid march of improvement, it may 
become a city 7 

Alas for the primitive customs of the olden time ! 
The follies and fashions of the great world have 
stolen in upon us, and are making fearful devasta- 
tions upon the minds and manners of the people. 
The buxom lasses who were wont to ply the 
knitting-needles and the spinning-wheel — who 
milked and churned, washed, baked and brewed — 
now come home from fashionable boarding-schools, 
with mincing gait and affected lisp, to sneer at the 
paternal mansion, with its antique, homely furni- 
ture, and to ridicule what to their fastidious ears 
is the unintelligible, vulgar jargon of their parents ; 
and instead of lending head and hands to the assist- 
ance of their mother, who has toiled unremittingly 
to give them the advantages which they so abuse, 
they toss their heads, and, in drawling accents, 
wonder at her presumption in supposing that young 
ladies of their education and refinement are going 
to drudge in the kitchen, like hii^ed help ! And so 
the poor mother toils on, and the young ladies sit 
down in the parlor to kill time and "torture the 
ear of sound" by thumping the keys of the piano, 
and changing into horrid dissonance the harmonious 
strains of some gifted child of song ; or, stretched 
languidly Upon their couches, alternatel^f devour 
the pages of some high- wrought fiction, and doze 
away the hours in unconscious slumber. 

Shame on the daughters of the land, who thus 
pervert their great privileges ! and woe to the mis- 
taken mothers, who have sown the seeds of which 



PROSE. 365 

they must needs reap a harvest of bitterness and 
misery ! 

But happily for us, a few scions of the old stock 
yet remain, from whom the spirit of the past has 
not yet c^eparted. These are just as quaint and 
old-fashioned in 'their dress, precise in their speech 
and manners, and as antiquated in their notions, 
as were their grandfathers and grandmothers, more 
than a century ago. 'T is a pleasant sight for the 
eyes to look upon, when tired of the glittering, 
glaring vanities of the present generation, to see 
the old farmer, with his blue frock, and the dame, 
with her nice apron, and high, starched cap, sitting 
at their cottage door in the summer twilight, — h« 
with his pipe, and she with her knitting- work, — 
enjoying the beauty of the landscape, and the gam- 
bols of their children's children; — and, in the long 
winter evenings, seated in the accustomed arm- 
chairs, on either side of the ample fireplace, or in 
the high-backed settee, which is in itself a type 
of home-comfort, with the healthy, happy family 
group gathered around, working, reading, or listen- 
ing to the reminiscences of the parents, as they 
talk cheerily of the past, with its manifold joys 
and sorrows. These are the fine gold, gleaming out 
from among heaps of dross, — the true diamonds, 
glittering amid mock-crystals. God bless them in 
this, the evening of their lives ! 

Even the houses have not stood still while the 
grand march has been going on around us. The 
old, red, gable-roofed farm-house, with its large, 
low-ceiled rooms, and antique furniture, has been 



366 PROSE. 

demolished, in accordance with the wishes of the 
fine-lady daughters, and Phcenix-like from its 
ashes has arisen a large, square, and ^'very white 
house," with green blinds, boasting the fashionable 
complement of double parlors and marble mantels, 
and furnished with sofas, rocking-chairs, mirrors, 
and centre-tables, littered with trashy novels, mag- 
azines, and annuals. Scattered here and there 
through the town, are cottages, in various styles of 
architecture, (some of which, I fancy, must have 
sorely puzzled the brains of the ingenious artist,) 
with and without porticos and piazzas upheld by 
columns or pilasters, and wreathed with various 
creepers, according to the station and tastes of the 
occupant, from the scarlet beans and many-colored 
morning-glories, reaching to the very eaves of the 
laborer's cot, to the honeysuckles, jessamine, and 
passion-flowers, that cluster round the rich man's 
porch. 

The very churches have partaken of the general 
change. Fifty years ago, all the inhabitants of 
the village of Hazlehurst were wont to worship in 
a small, simple, but pretty edifice, whose slender 
spire shot up amidst the foliage of some fine old 
English elms, which almost hid the body of the 
church from sight, and cast a sombre but pleasant 
shadow through the interior. Back of the church, 
and partly enclosing it, is the grave-yard, with its 
old, mossy, sunken stones, bearing the names of 
the patriarchs of the village who have gone to rest, 
and its luxuriant willows, through whose branches 
the winds made pleasant music, bending, as if in 



PROSE. 367 

sorrow, over the departed. Here gathered, from 
Sabbath to Sabbath, the happy dwellers of the 
hamlet, to listen, with meek and trusting hearts, to 
the words that fell from the lips of him who had 
ministered to them for so many years in that place 
and in their own homes, in all seasons, whether of 
joy or trouble. 

Those days are past. Few are the families who 
now meet around that altar to worship God, and 
by their presence to cheer and encourage the fal- 
tering steps of that aged- evangelist. Times have 
changed, and alas ! the hearts of the people have 
changed also. On the brow of yonder hill stands 
a church, with painted doors and windows, claim- 
ing to be of Gothic architecture, and a roof adorned 
with something called turrets, which, to my eye, 
bear a striking resemblance to sundry pepper and 
vinegar cruets, which used to adorn my grand- 
mother's cupboards. Treeless and shadowless it 
stands, in the bleakest position in town ; and one 
cannot but pity the poor souls who travel up that 
steep acclivity, exposed to the burning sun in sum- 
mer, and the piercing winds in winter, to say 
nothing of an involuntary slide down hill from the 
church-door, now and then, to the no small detri- 
ment of head-gear, &c. A few words of him who 
dispenses religious instruction in this place, and then 
we will pass on. The Rev. Mr. Humphrey is a 
tall, strapping youth, whose distinguishing trait is 
^^ tongueiness^''^ that useful member being literally 
too large for his mouth to contain, spacious as is 



368 PROSE. 

the orifice ; — a youth who formerly filled honorably 
his station behind the counter of our village shop, 
till some one persuaded him that he had a decided 
vocation for a learned profession ; whereupon Mas- 
ter Humphrey doffed his apron and his humility, 
cajoled an aged relative into giving him the requi- 
site means to pursue his ^'- studies ^^ and left the 
village, where, after an absence of three years, he 
reappeared, with a black coat, lengthened visage, 
and a large book under his arm, to win the admira- 
tion of the young ladies, and to elicit, by dint of 
grave countenance, and a Latin quotation now and 
then, the commendation of their fathers, who gave 
it as their opinion that Mr. Humphrey was a prom- 
ising young man; and a number having taken 
umbrage at some remarks of the old clergyman, 
they forthwith withdrew from the church, and, 
having induced some weak-minded ones to follow 
them, formed a new society and a new creed, and 
built the church on the hill, and invited the Rev. 
Mr. Humphrey to be their pastor. 

One after another, from various motives, left the 
old church ; and, but for the few true and simple- 
hearted people who still cling to old customs and 
to the friends of their youth, the good old minister 
would be left unsupported in his declining years ; 
for wife and children have long since dropped from 
his side, and lie at rest in the green church-yard, 
almost within sight of his pulpit. Poor old man ! 
many afflictions has it been his lot to contend with ; 
but never was his heart so sorely tried as when the 



PROSE. 369 

people of liis love and his charge deserted him. 
They, whose tried and faithful friend he had been 
for so many years, — they, whom he had joined in 
wedlock, whose children he had fondled in his 
arms, and dedicated to God at the altar, — they, in 
whose homes he had joyed and wept, whose hearts 
he had gladdened and comforted, who had been as 
brothers and sisters and children to him, had turned 
from him in his old age, to listen to new doctrines, 
breathed by a new voice ; had spurned the hand 
wasted by toil in their service, to grasp that of a 
stranger, whose thoughts, and hopes, and interests, 
had hitherto no sympathy with theirs ! Poor old 
man ! he still works bravely on ; but the spirit 
which animated him has passed away, I fear, for- 
ever. Ingratitude has crushed his heart and with- 
ered his energies ! 

The church (Gothic) stands, as I have said, on 
an elevation. On one side of the slope is the town- 
house, a building of no small importance here ; and 
just across the way, on the other side, may be seen 
peering through the trees the neat parsonage, ten- 
anted by the old minister ; while, a little further 
down the road, is a square, red, brick house, the 
dwelling of the new one, each bearing both out- 
wardly and inwardly a strong resemblance to the 
characters of their respective occupants ; — the one 
neat, tasteful, simple, and humble ; the other, glar- 
ing, gaudy and notice-seeking. 

The road here branches oif in two directions, 
leading on the left past the old, dilapidated, and 
now disused school-house, along by the stone 
31 



370 PROSE. 

walls enclosing Squire Wendell's ample fields and 
meadowSj and across a wide, bleak plain, to 

W , the next town. We will take a ramble in 

the other direction. 

This is my favorite walk, as it winds along by 
the banks of a sunny stream, which, though di- 
vested in a measure of its original character, has 
not yet forfeited its claims to beauty. In the good 
old days, before the railroad came within half a 
dozen miles of Hazlehurst, this was a free, care- 
less, singing stream, a delightful resort for idlers, 
who came to angle in its waters, or to sketch on 
its margin; for there are few towns or villages 
which can compete with this^n beauty of natural 
scenery. But no sooner was the railroad com- 
pleted, than strangers began to arrive at the tavern, 
now altered, amplified, and styled '' The Hotel." 
Charmed with the beauty and quiet of the place, 
they set themselves to work quickly as possible to 
mar the one and destroy the other. It was discov- 
ered that Hazlehurst had excellent ''water privi- 
leges," and forthwith, on the banks of our beautiful 
streams, arose saw-mills and grist-mills, manufac- 
tories of cotton and combs, machine-shops, and 
everything, in short, to which water-power could 
be applied. Now and then, to be sure, a mill 
forms rather a picturesque feature in a landscape. 
We have some which have attracted admiration 
from artists, and one, at least, which has been 
made immortal by the glowing pencil of gfenius. 
The chief cause of complaint, after all, is less in 
the change in scenery than in the accession of so 



PROSE. 371 

many strangers and foreigners, and the mischief 
they have wrought in the habits and manners of 
the people. Bat enough of this. We return to the 
road. 

Passing the saw-mill and comb-shop, we enter a 
greenwood path, shaded by trees on either side, and 
terminating at one of the prettiest and most pic- 
turesque old homesteads in town. The Parsons 
Farm ! What a host of recollections that name 
summons up ! what visions of huskings, and ber- 
ryings, and hop-gatherings — of sleigh-rides, and 
quiltings, and candy-frolics, and all the various 
amusements which rendered that place, in-doors 
and out, the merriest and pleasantest i^ the world ! 
For old Matthew Parsons was given to hospitality, 
and boasted, besides his large and highly-cultivated 
farm, well-filled storehouse, and roomy mansion, 
a round dozen of as sturdy lads and bright-eyed, 
buxom lasses, as ever graced a yeoman's board, 
or gathered round his ample fireside ; and a wife 
noted all the country round for comeliness, good- 
humor, and cookery. The veriest epicure would 
have revelled in luxury amid her custards, creams 
and whips ; but we children loved better the lus- 
cious, golden pumpkin-pie, the snow-white bis- 
cuits, and sweet, yellow butter, with which the 
good dame was wont to regale her young visiters. 
But alas, alas ! time and change have been busy 
there ! Old Matthew sleeps with his fathers — the 
homestead has passed into stranger hands — the 
children are scattered abroad, and the widow, a 
bowed and spirit-broken woman, is a dweller in 



372 PROSE. 

the house of her eldest son, in a far-off city. Alas 
for the Parsons Farm ! 

Here is a pretty Uttle cottage, half covered with 
woodbine, the dwelling of a revolutionary soldier 
and pensioner, who, despite his years and infirm- 
ities, and ae many afflictions as tried the patience 
of him of Uz, is one of the happiest old men alive. 
His wife and children have fallen, one by one, 
from his side ; but he is surrounded by faithful and 
loving grandchildren, who minister to his wants 
with alacrity, and support his failing steps with 
gentleness and affectionate zeal. In return, he 
"fights his battles o'er again" for their amuse- 
ment, and stores their minds Avith useful and wise 
lessons, gleaned here and there in the highways 
and by-ways of a long and active life. Blessings 
on the cheerful old man ! 

A little further on is an humble dwelling, not 
much above the quality of a cow-house, with a 
small yard in front, in rather a disorderly condition, 
Avhere at this present time a game of romps is enact- 
ing between four or five rosy-cheeked and dirty- 
faced children and a " pig," the pet and playmate 
of the family. This is the abode of Hugh Brady, 
an industrious Irish laborer, who manages by some 
means to pick up a living for himself, his wife, and 
the aforesaid five children and pig ; and assuredly a 
healthier and handsomer brood, " barring the dirt,''^ 
is not to be found in town. I must tell you some- 
thing about Rose Brady by and by ; but I intended 
only to give you a sketch of our town and its local- 
ities in this chapter. So we will hasten on. 



PROSE. 373 

Here are two houses alike in size, style, color, 
and adornments, each boasting the same number 
of doors and windows, the same suite of rooms, 
hung with paper of the same pattern, and furnished 
in the same manner, — fac-similes in every respect, 
even to the swing in the little piazza, which forms 
a sort of vestibule to the kitchen of either house. 
These are the dwellings of two carpenters, partners 
in business, and brothers in all save blood, whose 
families are noted all the country round for the won- 
derful harmony in which they live. Each has a wife 
and two children, a boy and girl ; and between the 
beauty of the co-heirs of Bernard, and the intelli- 
gence and amiability of those of Hayden, each 
mother is so well satisfied with her own as to feel 
no sentiment of envy or anger towards her neigh- 
bor. For seven years this happy state has existed ; 
and long may it continue, till its influence has 
spread over every family in our little community. 

A turn in the road brings us in front of Luke 
Derby's snug little domicil, a tiny red house, so 
small that I can hardly persuade myself even now 
that the door is high enough to admit of my en- 
trance erect, and involuntarily stoop when I ap- 
proach it, with as much loftiness of feeling as 
Gulliver must have entertained when visiting the 
homes of the Liliputians. Strange to say, how- 
ever, the inhabitants of the petite dwelling are no 
pigmies. All Hazlehurst cannot produce a match 
in height and strength for Luke Derby and his fair 
daughter Harriet ; for he is such an one as Frederic 
of Prussia would have chosen to lead his band of 
31* 



374 PROSE. 

grenadiers, and his daughter a fitting wife for the 
tallest and bravest of them. Thirty years' confine- 
ment to the bench and lapstone (for my friend 
Luke is an industrious shoemaker) has not been 
able to disfigure with the slightest stoop his up- 
right figure, nor the assistant occupation of shoe- 
binding to add even a '^ Grecian hend^^ to the many 
graces of his queenly daughter. Pardon me, dear 
reader, but I am proud of my tall friends, and 
cannot help saying a word of th^m as I pass. 

Next comes the pretty, fairy-like, Gothic cottage, 
with a piazza upheld by clematis- wreathed pillars, 
the tasteful and elegant abode of Mr. Selwyn and his 
two fair young daughters. The house opposite pre- 
sents a striking contrast to the white cottage. It is 
a two-story house, black with age, and displaying 
in many places the bare clap-boards, while the old, 
rotten shingles hang loosely here and there, as if 
waiting for a strong blast of wind to send them after 
their missing companions. Ah ! many sad changes 
have taken place beneath that weather-stained 
roof since the decrepit old man whose home it is 
first welcomed his young bride to its pleasant and 
comfortable shelter ! She is in her grave, with 
many of the fair and promising children she bore 
him ; ajad but one yet remains, to cheer his declining 
years, of all the group who once climbed his knees, 
and gladdened his heart with the name of ^^ father ^ 

Here is a new house, small and snug, which 
has just received its mistress, a girl of twenty, 
blushing and bridling with all the importance and 
dignity of a new matron ; and there the old-fash- 



PROSE. 



375 



ioned mansion, where three generations were born 
and married, and Hved and died. Here is a pretty- 
house, two stories in front, and sloping down 
almost to the ground at the back, with its neat 
garden-plot beneath the front window, gay with 
roses, pinks, and sweet-williams, enclosed by a 
neat white fence. But the exterior of this dwell- 
ing is not the principal attraction; it is but the 
temple which enshrines the divinity; for this is 
the home of Ellen C alder, the beauty of the town, 
ay, and of the county also. Ah, there she is at 
the window, her fair face peering out from among 
a cluster of scarlet geraniums, whose hue is shamed 
by her voluptuous lips ; and her bright eyes, blue 
as the blossoms of her favorite larkspur, are spark- 
ling with mirth, as she showers down an apron-full 
of roses upon the head of a laughing boy below. 
Is she not glorious at this moment, with her righ 
golden tresses absolutely glittering in the last rays 
of the setting sun ! But pretty Nell will not like 
it, to be thus described in a single paragraph; — we 
must give her a whole chapter anon. 

Here is another white house, of more modern 
date than Calder cottage, which also bears about 
it marks of refinement and taste. A woman's hand 
has been at work in the pretty and well-arranged 
garden, and her taste is also visible in the interior; 
the window-seats are a perfect green-house, and 
the mantel-piece and tables are decorated with 
vases of fragrant blossoms, which give an air of 
grace and beauty to the simplest habitation. This 
is the home of one on whose brow is set the brand 



376 PROSE. 

« 
of sin; ruined and disgraced in the eyes of the 
world, an apostate from truth and virtue, cast out 
from his high calling and from the fellowship of 
the just and good, he turned his steps to this place, 
many miles distant from his former abode, to pass 
the remainder of his dishonored days. But he 
came not alone ! Woman's true and devoted 
heart, bruised and broken though it were, could 
not forsake him, — her deep and earnest love was 
the one green spot in the wilderness of his future 
destiny. To the new home, where already his 
shame and degradation were known, where she 
could only hope to share the scorn and reprobation 
which must be his portion Avherever he went, the 
sorrowing but faithful wife followed him, to soothe 
his lonely hours, and to aid in bringing the sinner 
to repentance. 

Next comes the commercial part of the town. 
On one side is the dry goods store; on the other, the 
grocery and variety store, where tea and pins, cof- 
fee and shoes, sugar and ribbons, are promiscuously 
dealt out to purchasers; and last, but not least, 
the apothecary's snuggery, with its many-colored 
vases, attracting the wonder and admiration of the 
youngsters. A little to the right is a two-story 
building, with piazzas above and below, and a long 
flight of steps on either side, wherein are kept the 
post-office, a tailor's shop, and several offices for 
lawyers, doctors, &c., and bearing the somewhat 
august title of 'Uhe Arcade." There, intersected 
by a beautiful stream, lie the fine farms of Howe 
and Eardley ; and in the background rises a beau- 



PROSE. 377 

tiful hill, the pride of the town, its summit crowned 
with a miniature forest of chestnuts, while here 
and there on its grassy sides are clumps of oaks, 
elms, and maple-trees. At the hase of the hill, on 
the other side, is a brown cottage, with deep cov- 
ings, and long French windows, opening upon a 
terrace which slopes gradually to a smooth, velvet 
lawn in front, and a flower-garden on either side, 
the whole enclosed by a light iron railing, and 
betokening in all its adornments not only the sim- 
plicity of a refined taste, but the luxury which 
only wealth can procure. It is the residence of a 
young lawyer, Frank Germaine, and his bride, 
who, some three months ago, chose, in spite of the 
remonstrances and advice of her experienced guar- 
dians, to bestow her pretty self and an unencum- 
bered fortune of fifty thousand dollars upon the 
penniless barrister. They are a happy couple, for 
she has a generous spirit, and he loves her too 
truly not to forget the heiress in the bride. 

Opposite this luxurious abode is a low-browed 
house, covered with a profusion of woodbine, 
where dwells the widow of a city merchant and 
her three daughters, brought up in the enjoyments 
and luxuries of wealth ; but by one of those changes 
which are always taking place in the commercial 
world, they were reduced to comparative poverty, 
and, with the little remnant of their property, came 
to Hazlehurst, (then a village,) and settled in this 
humble dwelling, grateful that Providence had 
saved them from utter destitution. 

Then comes the cabinet-maker's shop, and his 



378 PROSE. 

small, neat house; and lastly, standing on a grassy 
slope, and shaded on either side by apple, plum, 
and cherry trees, and in front by four stately elms, 
whose branches sweep quite over the roof, is our 
home^ a two-story house, with gable roof, painted a 
delicate straw-color, with green blinds, and form- 
ing altogether one of the loveliest features of the 
landscape. And now, dear companion of my sum- 
mer day's ramble, (if I may flatter myself you 
have had patience to follow me,) the sun is setting; 
— see what a glorious flood of light and radiance 
streams through the interlacing boughs of the old 
trees, and illuminates every window as if for a 
royal festival ! I could gaze and admire for hours, 
but the evening meal is ready, and, verily, a "cup 
of tea" is not to be despised, when one is weary; 
so, till we meet again, to one and all — adieu ! 



THE SQUANTUM. 

^'What a strange title for a story!" said my 
'petite friend, Fanny L., as she stood looking over 
my shoulder; and she gave her pretty head a 
contemptuous toss, thereby expressing plainly as 
words could have done it her surprise at my 
bad taste, or rather utter want of taste. But her 
scorn was wasted upon me ; I have grown hard- 
ened to all such insinuations, am perfectly obsti- 
nate in maintaining my own opinions, and really 
think my taste quite as good as that of any other 
person ; despite the sarcastic looks and ironical 
speeches of all connoisseurs in beauty, grace and 



PROSE. 379 

fitness, whether it relate to a lady's face or the 
bonnet that shades it, to arranging a bouquet, tying 
a cravat, or any other among the legion of import- 
ant trifles which make up the sum and substance 
of what is denominated '' good taste." This, by 
the way. 

It may be, dear reader, that my title sounds as 
strangely in your ears as in those of my fastidious 
little friend ; and I acknowledge, when I first heard 
it, I was confounded, and was only kept from 
inquiring its signification by a dread of incurring 
the ridicule of those who spoke of it as familiarly 
as if it were a very common-place thing. I have 
since become initiated into the secret, and I will 
give you the advantage of my information. I can- 
not tell you the derivation of the word, for I never 
yet found a person who knew. In that case, I pre- 
sume, every one has a right to put his or her inter- 
pretation upon it ; and I fancy it to be an Indian 
Avord, meaning Fish-feast. This seems to me the 
most likely way of accounting for a word which 
surely no Englishman in his senses would ever 
have thought of coining. 

Having explained, to the best of my ability, the 
meaning of the word, I will proceed to give you 
some idea of the feast. Now and then, in country 
towns, where there are only fresh-water fish, and 
rather a scarcity of those, a subscription is got up 
among the lovers, or rather -enemies, of the finny 
tribe, a quantity of fish procured from the nearest 
seaport town or city, and with what can be pro- 
cured from their own ponds, if they have any, the 



380 PROSE. 

party proceed to some convenient spot, and one or 
two well skilled in culinary affairs being always 
included in the number, fires are built, and the 
cooking commences. The dinner consists of fish- 
chowder, fried, boiled and broiled fish, — literally a 
fish-feast, bread and cheese being extras. The 
meal being at length ready, the party gather 
around the rude tables under the trees, — a motley 
group enough, sans hat, jacket or neckerchief, — 
while the cook, with brawny arms bared to the 
shoulders, listens to the encomiums passed upon 
his skill with evident satisfaction. There they sit, 
eating, singing, or relating old jokes and fanny 
stories, till the woods ring with their laughter, and 
the shadows of twilight begin to deepen around 
them. Then each lends his aid to disjoint the 
tables and pack the dishes, which are stowed care- 
fully in the cart; the chowder-pots and gridirons 
follow, and the group proceed homewards, chat- 
ting, whistling or singing; and this is a Squantum! 
It was during the first summer of my residence 
in Hazlehurst, when the farmers had got through 
with their haying, that I first heard of a party of 
this description. Every third or fourth day, the 
male members of the family were absent at one of 
these festivals, when suddenly some one, wiser 
than the rest, — he must have been a newly- 
married man, unwilling to enter into enjoyment 
that his wife could not share, or else a bachelor of 
broad benevolence, — proposed getting up a Squan- 
tum, in which the ladies could be included. The 
proposal was without a precedent, and at first the 



PROSE. 381 

good men were startled at the impropriety of the 
thing; but their wives and daughters having re- 
ceived an intimation of the scheme that was afoot, 
entered into it with avidity. All opposition was 
of course useless ; before the gentlemen had time to 
frame a remonstrance, the plan was matured, a 
committee of arrangements appointed, and as the 
table was to exhibit a greater variety, to suit the 
tastes of the fair partakers, there was a general 
confasion in the town. Meetings were holden in 
the houses of the committee, and the note of prep- 
aration was sounded in every mansion ; eggs were 
beaten, spice pounded, and any one who had 
chanced to enter the kitchens on the day preced- 
ing the important one, would have found one dam- 
sel with bare arms busied in the kneading-trough, 
another compounding some mysterious delicacy, 
and a third heaping fagots in the capacious oven, 
with a face bearing more similitude to a red cab- 
bage than a damask rose. 

Such an excitement was never known before in 
Hazlehurst. At length the important day arrived, 
and many an anxious glance was cast at the dull, 
lead-colored sky, and regrets and rn,urmurs passed 
from lip to lip. But about ten o'clock the sky "cleared, 
the sun broke forth dazzlingly from the clouds, and 
gave promise of a day of intense heat. Hasty din- 
ners were eaten that day ; for who could eat, with 
the prospect of a Squantum before their eyes ! At 
two o'clock all were in motion; vehicles of all 
kinds were ni demand, from the light carryall and 
buggy wagon to the clumsy six horse team^ which 
32 



S82 PROSE. 

could accommodate forty people closely packed. 
At two, as I have said, we were mider way, and 
after a ride of half an hour, we came in sight of 
the Squantum ground. 

It was about two miles and a half from the mid- 
dle of the town, and of all the party gathered 
there, including the minister, — a great pedestrian, 
and an ardent lover of the beauties of nature, — 
none had overseen the place before ; not even the 
daughters of the owner, who, in common with the 
rest, were enraptured with the romantic beauty of 
the spot. The place selected for the Squantum was 
the top of a wooded hill, from which the tangled 
imderbrush had been cleared, leaving a commo- 
dious place for setting the tables beneath the 
trees. At the base of the hill was a beautiful 
stream, and through the trees could be discerned 
the old saw-mill, now fallen into disuse ; and the 
walls of an old farm-house, blackened with age, 
and bearing marks of neglect and desolation, 
■ — though it was inhabited, as was proved by the 
appearance of two or three ragged urchins, who 
were gathered round the door-stone, with un- 
combed locks and unwashed faces, and who stared 
with a sort of savage wonder at the gay groups 
who were dancing and frolicking about the grounds 
and among the trees, which had seldom listened 
before to such mirthful sounds. Swings had been 
suspended from the boughs of the old elm-trees, 
and the light forms of maidens were rushing 
breathlessly through the air, and startling the birds 
from their nests. Here and there a merry ring 



PROSE. 383 

might be seen dancing gayly on the grass, to the 
music of their own happy voices, while others 
wandered upon the banks of the brook, gathering 
bouquets of wild-flowers, and the matrons of the 
party sat on the benches, or on the turf beneath the 
trees, chatting leisurely, and watching the sports 
of the ^rounger portion. I was a stranger to nearly 
all present, and being withal somewhat given to 
solitary rambles and day-dreaming, I took the 
opportunity while both my companions were en- 
gaged, to steal away, and quickly descending the 
hill, followed the margin of the stream, till it led 
me to the old mill mentioned above. This was 
two stories in height; and having made my 
way over old timbers, joists, and other rubbish, I 
reached the upper room, and seating myself by 
one of the rude windows, found plenty of amuse- 
ment in looking at the various groups. 

My attention was particularly attracted to a 
knot of young girls, who were listening intently to 
something which one of their number was relating. 
I was watching, with no slight degree of interest 
and admiration, the wonderful play of the speak- 
er's features, and pondering upon the strange 
diversity of taste which could lead any to call one 
plain whom I thought so very lovely as Lucy Bell, 
when, with a low cry and a convulsive shudder, she 
fell back into the arms of one of her young compan- 
ions. My first impulse was to run to her assist- 
ance, but a glance showed that she was already 
surrounded by friends ; so I remained awaiting the 
issue, and trying to discover the cause of her sud- 



384 PROSE. 

den attack. A glass of cold water from the brook 
soon restored the poor ghi to consciousness, and as 
soon as she was able to walk, she thanked her 
friends for their aid, and taking the arm of a 
maiden beside her, they left the group, and turned 
into the path leading to the place where I sat. In 
a few moments I heard a low, sweet voice, speak- 
ing in tones which, though broken by sobs, I imme- 
diately recognized as those of Lucy Bell. "Do 
not ask me now," she said, as if in reply to a 
question from her companion; "when I am 
calmer I will tell you all;" and throwing herself 
upon the grassy bank beneath the window where 
I sat, she gave way to a passionate burst of tears. 
Her friend did not attempt to soothe a grief which 
she saw would soon exhaust itself, but sat silently 
beside the weeping girl, waiting for the tempest to 
subside. And now arose a debate in my mind as 
to the propriety of remaining a listener to the com- 
munication which Lucy was evidently about to 
make to her friend. Honor forbade my hearing 
what was evidently not intended for my ear, but 
then curiosity and somewhat also of ,a better feel- 
ing — for Lucy Bell had been an object of deep 
interest to me ever since our first meeting — com- 
bined to hold me there. 

A few words with regard to the maiden in ques- 
tion may not be out of keeping here. Lucy was 
the only child and sole treasure of an humble 
laborer and his wife, who, by untiring industry and 
strict frugality, had been enabled to bring up their 
daughter and educate her in a style far superior to 



PROSE. 385 

their circumstances. When the good wives of the 
village remonstrated with Mrs. Bell upon the folly 
of nurturing her child so tenderly, while she her- 
self, a sickly woman, worked day and night to 
help support her, she would only say, ''Nay, 
friend, Lucy is a delicate child ; she could not hear 
hard work, and while I live she shall never be 
obliged to toil as I have done ; time enough for her 
to spend her little amount of strength when the 
hour of need and trial comes. We will give her 
good schooling, which is better than riches; and 
then, when we are gone, perhaps she may get her 
living by some light and easy employment." 

Accordingly Lucy was sent to the best schools 
which the town afforded, and proud and happy 
were the parents when they saw their darling on 
an equal footing with the children of their best 
and wealthiest neighbors ; and as she grew to 
womanhood, they saw and rejoiced in the affection 
and attentions of young Herbert Wendell, the son 
of the proud old Squire, who traced his ancestors 
far back, hundreds of years before the Mayflower 
landed her little knot of pilgrims on the shores of 
New England. '.'He is a fine, manly youth," said 
the father, " and just such an one as I would have 
chosen for the guardian and protector of our Lucy ; 
and where would he find a bride to match with 
our pretty, gentle lily?" But ah! the dreams of 
the fond parents were not to be realized. None 
knew if an engagement had existed between Her- 
bert and Lucy; but suddenly their acquaintance 
was broken off. Herbert left the country, and 
32^ 



386 PR6SE. 

returned in a year with a young bride. For many 
a longj long month, Lucy hung her head Hke a 
stricken flower ; but as year after year went byj 
she gradually resumed her usual duties, and was 
smiling and cheerful, to all outward appearance, as 
ever. 

Few of the villagers call Lucy pretty ; but those 
who do not are of the class whose ideal of beauty 
consists in brilliancy of complexion, sparkling eyes,. 
and a gay, dashing manner. But to those who 
love to watch the play of features and the change- 
ful expression, she is truly lovely. Slender and 
fragile as a lily, with a face always pale, yet at 
times absolutely radiant with the outbeaming soul, 
large gray eyes drooping beneath the shadow of 
fringed lids; and then her hair, which, when un- 
bound, falls like a golden torrent around her ! Ah ! 
if she is not pretty^ Lucy Bell is truly beautiful ; 
and despite the v/ithering influences of time", sor- 
row and disappointment, she looks younger at 
seven and twenty than many of her young com- 
panions who number but seventeen summers. 

But to return from this digression. The fit soon 
passed away, and rising from the ground, Lucy 
shook back the waves of golden hair which had 
fallen like a glittering veil over her face and shoul- 
ders, and gently resting her head upon the shoul- 
der of her friend, she began, in a low and broken 
voice, her promised history, "You have some- 
times accused me, dear Mary, of a want of confi- 
dence in you; and at such times I have had a 
vague feeling of self-reproach; for. with all out 



PROSE. 387 

intimacy, and the many proofs of trusting aifection 
you have bestowed on me, there is one subject 
which was never mentioned between us — one 
name which I could not bring my trembhng hps to 
utter. But the spell is now removed, and you 
shall hear fully and truly the story of which you 
have doubtless heard many versions from the vil- 
lage gossips. You have often wondered at my 
aversion to your favorite walk, past the rich farm 
and pleasure-grounds of Squire Wendell; you 
have blamed me for the dislike, which I have 
vainly striven to overcome, towards his pleasant 
and chatty widow, whom all else admire and look 
up to. But ah ! it is not in poor, frail human 
nature to forgive the wrongs she has done me ; to 
forget that it was her pride and coldness which 
blighted the spring-blossoms of my existence ; and 
I have not yet attained that meekness and lowli- 
ness of heart, that forgiving spirit, which I have 
striven for so earnestly, and which more than all 
else I desire and prize. 

"From my veriest childhood, Herbert Wendell, 
the only son of the Squire, was my playmate, com- 
panion and champion. Timid, and accustomed 
always to rely upon the strength of others, I clung 
fondly to him who fought my battles against all 
who strove to oppress me; who was always 
ready to share his dainties with me, to coax 
me when I was pettish or sulky, and to amuse 
me when I was sad. As we grew older, our affec- 
tion, instead of fading away like a childish dream, 
gained strength and fervor; and when, at the 



388 PROSE. 

age of seventeeiij he left us to enter the University; 
we parted with sighs, and tears, and vows as 
impassioned, perchance more sincere, than those of 
many older and more experienced lovers. 

'' Herbert had promised to write to me; and oh, 
with what trembling eagerness I watched and 
waited for the post-day ! I heard the rumbling of 
the stage-wheels long ere they entered the village, 
and scarcely gave the postmaster time to empty 
the mail-bag, ere I presented myself before him. I 
awaited his answer with my heart on my lips I 
Already I felt the letter within my eager grasp I 
He turned — ' No letter for you ! ' I left the office 
with a slow and heavy tread, and a heavier heart. 
He has forgotten me already, I said ; and I gave 
myself up to a night of sleeplessness and tears. 
And yet, Herbert had been gone but three days ; 
but inexperienced, and judging of his feelings by 
the wildness of my own, I had fancied that he 
would sit down immediately on his arrival, and 
write me an account of his journey, with all the 
important nothings which lovers prize so highly. 
I can smrle now at what was bitter agony then — - 
alas! there is a vast, %ide difference between 
fifteen and seven and twenty ! The next post- 
day came, but brought me no tidings ; but on the 
third came a long and passionate epistle, crossed 
and recrossed enough to satisfy even my heart. 
Thenceforward every week brought me a letter ; 
and when the vacations came, and he was at mv 
side again, who had a lighter heart or a gayer 
smile than 1 7 



PROSE. 389 

"Happily and pleasantly sped the years of his 
collegiate course ; and we were already looking for- 
ward to and talking of our marriage, when a sud- 
den and unexpected obstacle arose. The old 
Squire and his lady, though never very cordial in 
their demeanor towards me, had shown no dislike, 
and made no objection to their son's attention to 
me; but when Herbert made known to them his 
views for the future, the father frowned, and his 
mother angrily forbade his entertaining an idea of 
degrading himself by such an alliance. She had 
laughed at his attentions while she considered it 
merely as a flirtation between the aristocratic 
young heir of Wendell Manor and the daughter 
of an humble laborer ; but when her son ventured 
upon the presumptuous step of proposing to make 
a wife of the village maiden, her pride was 
aroused, and Herbert was forbidden, upon pain of 
disinheritance and his parent's curse, to think of 
me longer. 

" But he was too noble and generous thus to 
desert one whose love he had sought and won; 
and though his voice faltered as he spoke of the 
malediction with which he had been threatened, 
he implored me to let no scruples deter me from 
becoming his wife. 'I am young and strong, 
Lucy,' he argued ; ' I have some talent, and ambi- 
tion enough to urge me to make it available; and 
with your society to repay me for my labors, and 
your voice to cheer and encourage me, trust me, 
we shall be prosperous and happy, and my mother 
will yet bless the day which gave her such a 



390 PROSE. 

daughter ! ' Love and despair were tugging closely 
at my heart-strings, — how could I give him up 
in whom I had so fondly garnered my hopes of 
happiness ! And yet, to see him struggling with 
poverty and the parental curse, toiling through 
the long day, and coming at its close to the hum- 
ble home which alone his means would enable 
him to support, weary and sick at heart, and to 
know that it was all endured for my sake; — when 
I thought of all this, and contrasted it with his 
present situation and future prospects, my spirit 
sank. That was a night of bitter anguish, but I 
watched and wept and prayed, and the morning 
light found me victorious; and when I left my 
chamber, I despatched a note to Herbert, telling 
him of my struggles, and of my ever unalterable 
determination. 

"Ere two hours had elapsed, he was with me^ 
and mighty was the conflict between love and 
duty ; but I nerved my frail spirit to the encounter, 
and though crushed, and bruised, and bleeding, my 
heart proved true to its high resolve. Yain was 
the eloquence of passion to change it, vain the 
pleadings of my own weakness ; we parted — aqd 
when the struggle was over,-'! sunk into a state of 
apatlif^, from which, for a time, nothing had power 
to rouse me. This was followed by a long and 
dangerous illness, and when I recovered, Herbert 
had left the country to visit an uncle in England. 
This relative had an only daughter, and it was 
rumored in the village that the fathers had planned 
a match between their children, hoping thus to 



PKOSE. 391 

unite their property, and continue it in a direct 
line. However this may have been, their augury 
proved true ; in a year from the time of his depart- 
ure from Hazlehurst, Herbert Wendell returned 
with his bride. My pride supported me in this 
trying season, and when I took my seat in 
church the Sabbath after his arrival, conscious that 
all eyes were upon me, watching my looks and 
demeanor, my step faltered not; and if I were paler 
than I was wont to be, no other sign betrayed my 
inward/struggles. 

•'There was a confused murmur in the church 
as Herbert led in his bride, and involuntarily I 
turned my eyes towards the Wendell pew ; but a 
film gathered over them, and I saw only the dark 
shadov/ of a manly form, and the dazzling white 
robes of the bride. Only once during their stay 
did I meet my lost lover and his new idol ; I had 
been visiting old bed-ridden Hannah, and was 
hastening homewards by the path leading past the 
old grave-yard, when my ear caught the tones of a 
voice never to be forgotten, and looking up, I met 
the gaze of Herbert Wendell. His bride was lean- 
ing on his arm, and he was talking in gentle 
accents, but oh, not as he used to address me ! but 
when his eyes met mine, he became pale as death, 
and the veins in his broad, high brow were swollen 
nigh to bursting. We passed on without other 
sign of recognition, but that deathly, agonized look 
will never be effaced from my memory. 

"I left home soon after this encounter, and was 
absent many months ; ere I returned, Herbert had 



392 PROSE. 

quitted Hazlehurst, and has never since revisited it. 
Seven years have passed since that time, and I. 
have schooled myself to a degree of calmness and 
quiet which I hardly hoped then to attain. I fan- 
cied that I could meet him now without one thrill 
of emotion — but alas for the weakness of my 
woman-heart ! — to-day, while we were chatting 
gayly yonder, he stood before me with that sad and 
melancholy expression which has haunted me so 
long; and the rest you know." As Lucy finished 
her narrative, a young girl came running toward 
them with a summons to dinner, and as soon as 
the two friends were out of sight, I slowly fol- 
lowed. 

At the table, I stole many a glance at the face of 
Lucy Bell, and was glad to see her resuming, by 
degrees, her usual calm and quiet manner. Once 
or twice I saw her cast a furtive glance around the 
board, as if in search of some one, and I shrewdly 
conjectured who the sought one might be. When 
the repast was over, and the company had gathered 
around the open space, to listen to some remarks 
from the minister, lawyer and others, I stole away, 
and descending the steep hill-side again, I pursued 
the path which led along the banks of a brook, and 
seating myself upon the trunk of an old tree, I gave 
myself up to a delicious day-dream, in which the 
principal characters were Lucy Bell and her ci-de- 
vant lover. While thus engaged, I was startled by 
the sound of a rich, manly voice, and soon became 
aware of the proximity of the objects of my inter- 
est; for just then I caught a glimpse of a tall, fine- 



PROSE. 393 

looking man, walking close at the side of Lucy 
Bell. She was very pale, and seemed deeply 
agitated ; and as she lifted her soft eyes to his face, 
I could see that they were swimming in tears. 

The parties were too much engrossed by their 
own conversation to notice me, as I sat nearly con- 
cealed by the shrubbery ; and having unwittingly 
heard a portion of their discourse, I felt as if to 
make them aware of my presence now would but 
confuse and distress them. I was now really vexed 
at the accident which would compel me for the 
second time in one day to become an eaves-drop- 
per ; but they had paused on the other side, Euid 
the slightest movement would have rustled the 
leaves and shrubs, and revealed my unwelcome 
presence ; so I remained in breathless stillness, and 
became an unwilling though interested auditor of 
their discourse, to which Lucy's own narrative 
had given me a key. 

''Do not turn away from me, dearest," said the 
lover, '' till you have heard my vindication, till you 
know all that has passed during the long, weary 
years of our separation ! " And in a strain of ear- 
nest eloquence, he told of his early and long devo- 
tion; of the hopes that cheered him on, and enabled 
him to do all and brave all for her sake ; of the 
arguments and threats and reproaches with which 
he had been assailed, and which could not induce 
him to. forsake her. He spoke of her cold rejection 
of his offers, of her fixed resolve never to become his 
wife ; of the agony of separation, and the despair 

with which he had quitted his native land ! On 
33 



394 PROSE. 

^ • 

his arrival in England, he had been warmly wel- 
comed by his uncle, and introduced to his cousin, 
a girl of sixteen ; and it was then Herbert first 
Jearned the long-cherished project of his parents 
and uncle. He at once refused to listen to such 
proposals, and declared his intention of never mar- 
rying. Then came tidings that Lucy had forgotten 
him, and was about to wed another, a rich farmer 
in Hazlehurst ; and Herbert remembered that when 
he had offered to renounce his inheritance, and to 
toil on cheerfully for and with her, — when he had 
been willing to brave poverty and all its attendant 
evils, — she had shrunk from the prospect, and cast 
him off; and in the bitterness of his outraged heart, 
he accused her .of being mercenary and selfish. 
Miserable and despairing, he would fain have 
returned to his native land, and hidden himself in 
some of its western solitudes ; but his uncle, Avho 
knew the cause of his distress, laughed at him, and 
hurried him into society, which he prophesied 
would soon cure him of his love-sickness. And 
Mary was ever ready, with gentle words, to soothe 
him; she drew him forth to ride and walk with 
her ; she sang duets that he might accompany her, 
and strove by every wile to make him forget his 
sorrow. Again came tidings of Lucy's happiness, 
and goaded to desperation, he yielded to the wishes 
of his relatives, and became the husband of Mary. 
On his arrival at Hazlehurst, he had asked no 
questions concerning Lucy, and not till he had 
been at home more than a week did he hear her 
name mentioned. But one who had known them 



PROSE. 395 

both from childhood, and to whom Lucy was dear 
as a daughter, angry with him for what she con- 
sidered his base desertion of her favorite, harshly 
rebuked him for his conduct, and he then learnt 
the falsehood by which he had been deceived. 
Sick at heart and self-reproached, and stung by the 
meek and sorrowful expression Lucy had worn 
when they accidentally met, and almost loathing 
those who had stooped to such base means to effect 
their purpose, he hastened away from the place 
where everything reminded him of the lost one, and 
after a short sojourn in his native land, he returned 
with his wife to England. 

His uncle died soon after their return, and Mary, 
now mistress of a princely fortune, gave full scope 
to her love of pleasure. Balls, dinners, and fetes 
of every kind, followed each other in rapid succes- 
sion, and Herbert now seldom saw her except in 
the midst of a crowd. With a natural distaste to 
amusements of this kind, and a daily diminishing 
respect for the vain and silly woman whom he 
called his wife, he became weary and disgusted 
with his life. A settled gloom pervaded everything 
on which he looked, and at times he half doubted 
his own sanity, when a terrible shock aroused him 
from his lethargy. 

The weak and faithless Mary left her husband 
and her home, to fly to another land^in company 
with one whose flatteries had been loudest and 
coarsest, and consequently most grateful to her ear. 
She departed without one word expressive of shame 
or remorse, and the few lines she left were merely 



31^6 



PROSE. 



to say that she doubted not he would rejoice to be 
rid of one whom he had never loved, and who was 
perfectly indifferent towards himself But she was 
arrested in her guilty course by a mighty hand ! 
Ere she reached Paris, which was the destination 
of the criminal pair, the carriage which conveyed 
them was overturned, and while the partner of her 
flight escaped with a broken limb, Mary was 
instantaneously called to her account. The awful 
tidings reaghed Herbert, as he sat in his. study, pon- 
dering upon the means to be used for reclaiming 
the unfortunate woman, and he hastened im- 
mediately to the scene of the catastrophe. Mary 
was buried in the great cemetery which has 
received the bones of so many foreigners, and then 
Herbert returned to settle his affairs in England, 
preparatory to his final departure to his own home. 
He arrived at Hazlehurst the morning of the 
Squantum, and having learned that Lucy was 
among the guests, he hastened thither. Shocked 
by the effect his sudden appearance had produced, 
he retired to a remote part of the grounds, and 
while walking thoughtfully along, he encountered 
Lucy, who had stolen unperceived from the rest of 
the party to enjoy a solitary ramble. She would 
have passed without recognizing him, but he de- 
tained her to plead for a few minutes' conversation, 
that he might explain to her the cause of what he 
well knew she must consider as a heartless aban- 
donment of her. ''And now, beloved," he urged, 
" that you have listened patiently to my story, will 
you send me forth again, a lone wanderer into the 



PROSE. 397 

world 1 Have yau indeed forgotten all the past, — 
the happy days of our childhood, the deeper bliss 
of our maturer years ? Will you cast me off coldly, 
Lucy, as unworthy your love and esteem? An- 
swer me, dearest; can you forgive all, and be to me 
once again all you were ten years ago, and more — 
not merely the object of my passionate devotion, 
but my true and tender wife — the companion of 
my future years, the sharer of my joys and sor- 
rows? Will you consent to realize all the fairy 
dreams of our young hearts, ere a shadow had 
fallen on them? " And Lucy buried her head on 
his shoulder, and though no sound reached my ear, 
I had little doubt that the answer was such as the 
pleader wished ; for they soon after left their seat 
and wandered on, and I saw that the lover's arm 
was around the waist of the now smiling Lucy, 
and that her hand was tenderly clasped in his. I 
saw them again at twilight, and then Herbert was 
handing the maiden into a handsome chaise, and 
they drove rapidly aAvay. Some two or three 
hours later, when I went to my chamber, a light 
was burning in the little parlor of Mrs. Bell's cot- 
tage, and I was* free to conclude that Miss Lucy 
had a visiter. 

This was in August, and ere October, with its 
clear, starry nights, had departed, there was a 
gathering of friends in that same little parlor ; and 
happiest and gayest among the group were Herbert 
Wendell and his bonnie Lucy, looking, if a little 
more subdued, a'S fair and smiling as when she 
first plighted the girlish faith which she has just 
33=^ 



398 PROSE. 

redeemed at the bridal altar. The Squire's ladyj 
now a widow, and sincerely repentant for the con- 
duct which has caused her son so much misery, 
has striven, by her kindness and affection to his 
bride, to efface all painful memories of the past ; 
and a happier group is not to be found than that 
which now gathers round the ample hearth-stone 
of Wendell Manor. It is not long since another 
Squantum was proposed, similar to that which 
produced such happy results to our friends ; and 
first in advocating, and warmest in support of the 
measure, was Herbert Wendell. "We will cer- 
tainly grace it with our presence, dearest Lucy," 
he said to his wife; ''for to the end of my life I 
shall always look back with grateful and pleasant 
recollections to the day spent at The Squantum ! " 



ROSE BRADY. 

I PROMISED in my first chapter, I think, to tell you 
something about my acquaintance. Rose Brady ; 
and as I have just been walking, and, in the course 
of my stroll, chanced to stop at her cottage — if such 
the humble dwelling may be called — and as, more- 
over, she is quite an interesting person in my esti- 
mation, I shall do myself the pleasure, with your 
permission, dear reader, to chat a while with you 
concerning her. 

Rose O'Neill was the only child of an Irish 
farmer, who had been left in good circumstances 
by the death of his father, and in possession of the 



PROSE, 399 

homestead which had been in the hands of his 
family for many successive generations. PhiHp, 
or, as he was generally called, Phil O'Neill, the 
father of Rose, was a gay, handsome, thoughtless 
fellow, fond of dress and the society of those of a 
iike turn with himself His father died while he 
was quite young; and his mother, a weak and silly 
woman, doting on the pretty boy whose posses- 
sion was envied her by all her neighbors, and who 
was always petted and noticed by the lords and 
ladies at Sullivan Castle, the "great house" of the 
village, humored all his childish whims, obeyed 
all his arrogant demands, and forced all under her 
control to do the same ; till, in the end, Phil was 
fully impressed with the idea that he was a person 
of infinite consequence, and would infallibly have 
rendered himself hateful to all who came within 
reach of his dominating spirit, had he not luckily 
been blessed with an inexhaustible fund of good- 
humor, and a ready wit, which, with that mirth- 
loving people, was sufficient to hide a multitude of 
faults, and made them overlook his sometimes 
haughty and arrogant manner. Gifted with a 
conversational talent, which, uncultivated as it 
was, he contrived to render at times perfectly fas- 
cinating, a fine person, and a sort. of careless, off- 
hand manner, and being, withal, a sprightly dancer 
and a good singer, qualifications of which no one 
knows the worth better than an Irishman, — with 
all these accomplishments, Phil O'Neill was a wel- 
come guest in all circles. 

While yet in the first flush of manhood, b 



400 PROSE. 

became acquainted with Annie Sullivan, the niece 
of the good Catholic priest of the parish, who was 
also chaplain at the castle, and distantly connected 
with the earl's family. Annie was a fair, delicate 
girl, wholly unlike, in person or manners, the buxom 
village lasses, and, perhaps, for that very reason 
more attractive to Philip, who was growing some- 
what weary of the airs and graces of the rustic 
coquettes. He first met her at the wedding of a 
young girl, a neighbor of his own, who was Annie's 
foster-sister ; she officiated at the ceremony as 
bridesmaid, and, amid the mirth and jollity of an 
Irish festival, Phil and Annie could hardly fail to 
be attracted to each other. They danced together, 
and chatted merrily during the intermissions ; and 
now and then Annie's light, silvery laugh was 
heard, as she listened to Phil's witty anecdotes and 
sprightly remarks? He escorted her home that 
night to the house of the good priest, whom she 
had come to visit for the first time since her child- 
hood, having been for several years at school; from 
that time the young couple often met, at church, 
in the village lanes and by-paths, and now and 
then at some rustic merrymaking, where, as if 
instinctively, all the beaux gave way at once to 
Phil's claims upon the time and smiles of Annie 
Sullivan. And no wonder ; for the maiden was 
shy and coy and reserved till he made his appear- 
ance, and then, as soon as she caught the sound 
of his voice, or a glimpse of his bright, handsome 
face, her own would light up with a joyous expres- 
sion, and the smile "yvould come to her lip, and the 



PROSE. 



401 



rose-leaf hue deepen to scarlet in her fair cheeks, 
and a new Ufe seem developed in her every look 
and motion. 

Soon a change was perceptible in Phil himself. 
He became quieter and more reserved in his man- 
ner ; talked less, and when at all, in a rambling 
and singular manner; walked by moonlight, and 
generally in a direction not exactly opposite to 
that in which Annie lived; he sung sentimental 
songs, and heartily astonished his friends and vexed 
his gay companions. Now, but one cause could be 
assigned for all this, — but one way was thought of 
to solve the riddle, — and this the good folks were 
not slow to puzzle out. Phil was in love — that 
was evident ; and, while some bantered him about 
his sweetheart, and others laughed at his strange 
vagaries, many more sincerely pitied him, for few 
believed the priest would ever consent to Annie's 
marriage with a farmer, and especially one of such 
a turn as Phil O'Neill; ''though, to be sure," they 
said, "Phil was a likely boy, and quite handsome, 
and good enough for the earl's daughter even," 
who had been seen to cast many a glance upon the 
graceful young peasant. But Phil continued his 
attentions to Annie, despite the pity or sneers of 
his acquaintances; and when, in due time, he 
declared his passion, and wooed the gentle maiden 
for his bride, he drew from her a timid, but not the 
less ardent, confession of its return, and was referred 
to the priest, her uncle, to whose guardianship she 
had been consigned by her parents, for Annie had 
long been an orphan. 



402 PROSE. 

It was with a trepidation quite unusual to him 
that Phil ascended the steps of the priest's house, 
and presented himself before his reverence. Once 
his courage well-nigh failed him, but then the 
image of his beloved rose up before him, and he 
resolutely entered the room and made known the 
object of his visit. The good father was, at first, 
quite too much surprised to answer; for he led a 
somewhat secluded life, rarely going out save to. 
visit his parishioners, none of whom would have 
ventured to gossip to the priest concerning the love- 
passages between his niece and Philip O'Neill. 
When he had somewhat recovered from his bewil- 
derment, he proceeded to question the young lover 
as to the rise and progress of his attachment to 
Annie. Phil was at first somewhat embarrassed, 
but he gained courage as he proceeded, and soon 
laid the whole affair before the good man. Father 
Sullivan listened in silence till Phil got through 
with his story, and, after musing for a few mo- 
ments, he said, "I doubt if you and Annie are 
wise in this matter, and I confess I could have 
wished her choice to have fallen somewhat differ- 
ently ; but if, as you say, the foolish girl loves you, 
and her happiness depends upon this match, she is 
dear to me as a daughter, and her wishes shall not 
be thwarted." 

Accordingly Annie was summoned to the study, 
and answered with a blushing face to her uncle's 
kind, but somewhat blunt questions, as to her part 
in the affair with which he had just been made 
acquainted ; and when he had finally drawn from 



PROSE. 403 

V 

her a full confession of her attachment to and un- 
qiiaUfied preference of Phil to all the young men 
with whom she had been acquainted in different 
walks of life, he hesitated no longer, but joining 
their hands, he pronounced a fervent benediction 
upon them. In six weeks from that day, Phil and 
Annie were married in the parish church by the 
good priest, and settled down quietly in the old 
farm-house, a loving and happy couple. 

Several years passed by, without. the occurrence 
of any important event to the O'Neills, save the 
birth of a daughter in the first year of their mar- 
riage ; and now, after this long digression, I return, 
or go forward, (as you will,) to my proper heroine, 
Rose. This little one proved to be their only child, 
and was consequently the pet and darling, not only 
of her parents, but of all the parish ; who unani- 
mously asserted the little Rose to be the prettiest, 
wittiest, and best child in all Ireland : and the old 
women used to declare that the fairies watched 
over her birth, and had gifted her with a peculiar 
charm, which was exercised over all who came 
within scope of her influence. Be this as it might, 
there was certainly a nameless fascination about 
her, — a witchery in her smile, and her silvery 
accents, — in her deep blue eyes, and gentle, loving 
manner, — which drew all hearts towards her. She 
was more especially the idol of her grand-uncle, 
the priest, who, possessing but few natural ties, 
clung the more closely to the few who claimed 
kindred with him. He loved to have Rose visit 
him often in his study, and dehghted to imbue her 



404 PROSE. 

young and teachable mind with knowledge; which, 
falling from his lips, was gratefully received and 
faithfully treasured up by the little maiden. 

When Rose was but nine years old, she had the 
misfortune to lose her father, who was thrown from 
his horse while returning home from a distant town, 
whither he had been to transact some business, and 
he lived but a few hours after the fall. His death 
was a terrible shock to his wife, for ten years of 
happy wedded life had riveted still closer the bonds 
of their early love ; and at first it seemed to Annie 
quite impossible to live without him, upon whom 
she had leaned with such tender reliance. But 
with time came reflection, and by degrees she 
learnt to think of him with a quieter and more 
tranquil sorrow, and to look forward with a chas- 
tened spirit to the time when she should meet him. 
again. All her earthly hopes and affections seemed 
now to be garnered up in Rose, whose mind and 
character were rapidly developing under the care 
and guidance of the good Father Sullivan, who 
would gladly have retained the child always with 
him. After Philip's death he had been anxious to 
prevail upon Annie to remove to his home with 
Rose, and cheer his declining days ; but Mrs. 
O'Neill, always delicate and fragile in health, 
began to feel the inroads of a disease upon her 
lungs inherited from her mother's family, and sus- 
pecting her sojourn would be short, she preferred 
to remain in the house where she had seen so much 
of happiness, and where everythijj.g reminded her 
of him whom she had lost, and whom she now 



PROSE. 405 

hoped soon to rejoin again. Annie survived her 
husband but three years, and then cheerfully con- 
fiding Rose to the paternal care of her uncle, she 
fell sweetly asleep. 

The farm on which the O'Neills, father and son, 
had dwelt for so many years, being entailed upo. . 
male heirs, passed into the hands of a distant rela- 
tive, and a few hundred pounds saved by Phil, in 
the years succeeding the birth of his daughter, was 
the only provision for Rose. In accordance with 
her mother's wishes, the orphan girl was taken to 
the home of him in whose heart she had long been 
the chief object, and to whom she seemed even 
dearer now that she was his sole tie, the only near 
relative he possessed ; and far more than the pater- 
nal affection he had felt for his niece Annie was 
lavished upon her young daughter. Rose grew in 
grace and beauty, the pride and delight of the old 
man's heart, and still the prime favorite of all his 
parishioners. 

At seventeen she was the reigning toast of all 
the country round, and many a courtly gallant had 
sought her smiles, and many a gay lady looked 
with envy on the simple country maiden. Some- 
times at the country balls a patrician belle would 
sneer at the idea of being eclipsed by a farmer's 
daughter, as she surveyed her own richly-dressed 
figure, and saw the mirrors reflecting the light of 
the jewels which sparkled on her neck, brow and 
arms; but when Rose O'Neill entered, arrayed in 
her simple muslin robe, with no ornament save a 
golden chain and cross which had been her moth- 
34 



406 PROSE. 

er's, all eyes rested with involuntary admiration 
upon her graceful, willowy form, the snowy neck 
and arms, the waves of rich brown hair, braided 
smoothly back from her high white brow, the softly 
rounded cheeks, the full rosy lips, dimpling with 
smiles, and the large, blue, glorious eyes, with their 
sweeping fringes, so soft, so bright, and changeful 
as an April sky ! 

But neither flattery nor envy could produce any 
important efiect upon the mind or manners of 
Rose. She had been carefully taught to look upon 
her rare beauty as a blessing, only because it might 
give pleasure to her friends, even as a beautiful 
flower, bird or shell, or any other of the many fair, 
bright things which God has created for our enjoy- 
ment ; and though it certainly gave her kind heart 
pain when she encountered cold and scornful looks, 
yet she only turned with brighter smiles to those 
to whom her presence was sunshine, and who 
rejoiced with glad hearts in the light and glory of 
her young beauty. 

As will readily be . supposed, many devotees 
flocked to offer homage at so bright a shrine ; and 
among these were some of loftier rank than her 
own, who would fain have wedded the beauty- 
dowered girl ; but Rose had no ambition to be thus 
exalted, and preferred to mate with one of her own 
degree. Her nineteenth year had passed, and Rose 
was still an unappropriated flower, save by her 
doting uncle, who in his heart secretly rejoiced 
when Rose so cheerfully rejected all oflers ; but her 
time was at hand. Among the village beaux was 



^ROSE. 407 

one named Hugh Brady, the second son of a 
wealthy farmer. He was an inteUigent, good-look- 
ing youth, with more refinemeut of mmd and man- 
ners than usually falls to the lot of those in his 
condition ; but, like Rose, he had been favored with 
the lessons of the good priest, by which he had 
profited well. Hugh had been the playmate of 
Rose in their childhood, and her warmest admirer 
ever since he could remember; and though, now 
that she had become a woman, she rarely showed 
any mark of preference for him, yet Hugh had 
carefully treasured up sundry words and looks, and 
secretly entertained in his heart a lurking hope 
that he was not an object of utter indifference to 
Rose O'Neill. 

But when he saw her followed, courted and 
admired, and gazed upon her queenly beauty, the 
poor fellow felt awed and abashed in her presence, 
and dared not hazard an expression of his attach- 
ment. And Rose, with the least bit of coquetry in 
the world, saw, without appearing to see, his strug- 
gles, and waited for her lover to "take heart of 
grace," and ask for the boon he so much craved. 
Still, month after month went by, and he spoke 
not; and there is no knowing how much longer 
poor Hugh might have remained silent, but for a 
(to him) timely accident, which fairly frightened 
him out of his fears, and unsealed his lips. He 
was strolling along at twilight through the village, 
when he espied Rose approaching from an oppo- 
site direction ; but she did not notice him, for her 
eyes were bent on the ground, and she was appar- 



408 PROSE. 

ently in deep meditation. Between the two was a 
little stream, with a plank laid across for a bridge ; 
there had been a heavy rain, and the log was wet 
and slippery, and ere Rose had reached the extrem- 
ity, her foot slipped, and she fell into the stream. 
She gave a faint cry as she fell, but ere the sound 
passed her lips, Hugh Brady, who had seen the 
accident, was at the edge of the stream. He waded 
into the shallow water, and in a moment Rose 
was laid on the bank, with dripping garments, a 
sprained ankle, and sundry bruises. Fairly startled 
out of his embarrassment, Hugh now poured in 
impassioned language the story of his love and 
despair, and never was human heart lighter than 
his, when he received from the lips of Rose herself 
the assurance that he was loved in return. Long 
they sat there on that grassy bank, forgetful alike 
of sprains, bruises and wet clothes, till at length 
the shadows of night began to fall heavily around 
them, and the pain arising from her injured limb 
warned Rose to return homewards. She was ten- 
derly assisted on the way by the now joyful Hugh, 
and short seemed the distance, when beguiled by 
the conversation of loving hearts. 

The old housekeeper soon bathed the wounded 
limb, and applied a soothing liniment to the bruises, 
and then Rose sought her uncle's room, and resting 
her head on his shoulder, gave vent to the long- 
treasured hopes and wishes of her heart. The old 
man remained silent for some time after Rose had 
finished her communication, and she was too much 
engrossed by the intensity of her own feelings to 



PROSE* 409 

notice it at first ; but as by degrees she became 
calmer, she lifted her head, and eagerly awaited 
his reply; and when at length he spoke, she observed 
that his voice was somewhat broken, and there 
were tears in his mild, calm eyes. Tenderly she 
pressed her lips to his aged brow, and begged his 
forgiveness if she had in aught wounded or dis- 
pleased him ; and the old man drew the now tear- 
ful girl to his breast again, and strove by gentle 
words to soothe her grief 

"Do not weep, darling," he said; "it was a self- 
ish feeling which prompted my silence, and I ought 
rather to sue for your pardon, for having entertained 
such a thought in connection with my dear child. 
But you know. Rose, how you have cheered and 
enlivened my once lonely home, and how like the 
blessed sunshine your presence seems to my old 
heart ; and I thought how desolate I should be if 
you went away from me, and how I should miss 
your bright smile and sweet voice, and the thou- 
sand little attentions you have lavished upon me, 
which no other hand could bestow ; and then came 
up vividly before me the image of your mother 
when she stood at your father's side the morning I 
pronounced the marriage benediction upon them, 
and again as she lay calm and ^ motionless in her 
coffin. And then passed rapidly before me the joy- 
ful seasons of your birth and your baptism, when I 
held you in my arms, and vowed in my heart 
before God, as I received you into the pale of the 
Christian church, to cherish and protect you in 
concert with your parents, and to guide your young 
34* 



410 PROSE, 

feet in the paths of innocence. I thought of all 
the happy hours when you have sat at my feet or 
by my side, and imbibed the simple lessons of wis- 
dom and truth ; of that sad day when I took you, 
weeping, from the cold bosom of your dead moth- 
er, and promised to supply the places of both father 
and mother to you : and as these memories came 
rushing over my mind with the thoughts of all you 
had been to me since that time, and of the blank 
which would follow your departure, I was over- 
whelmed, and in my selfish sorrow forgot the 
emotions that were agitating your young heart. 
But it is over now — look up, my Rose, my darling, 
and say that you forgive the old man, and let me 
see your glad smile once more. Next to your dear 
self, there is no one for whom I have more affec- 
tion than for Hugh Brady ; and though, perhaps, 
when I have seen you admired by those of lofty 
rank and high intellectual attainments, I may have 
formed ambitious projects for my child, yet I will 
not mar your happiness by seeking to control your 
choice. I will be selfish no longer; so bring Hugh 
hither, my sweet Rose, that I may give my consent, 
and bestow my blessing upon you both." 

"It is I that was selfish, dear uncle," replied 
Rose, as she lifted her glistening blue eyes to his 
face, " to think of leaving you, my best friend, in 
your old age, with no one tcyninister to your grow- 
ing infirmities. But I should not have done so; 
my heart would never have permitted such a gross 
violation of duty and affection ; and well as I love 
Hugh, I could not be happy with him, knowing 



fhose, 411 

that you were lonely and sad, and pining for the 
society and attentions of your Rose. So rest 
assured, my dear father, that while you live, I will 
never, never leave you." 

" Nay, dearest, but this must not be ; though old 
and infirm, I may yet live many years, and it is 
unjust to require or even wish you to sacrifice the 
best years of your life to an old man's comfort. 
Hugh will not take you far from me ; I shall see 
you every day, and I may yet live to bless your 
children, and perhaps to transfer my petting to 
another Rose, or xose-bitd, as you will." 

" But my dear uncle — " persisted Rose. 

"But my dear niece," interrupted the old man, 
" I really cannot stop to argue this point with you ; 
— so run along and send Hugh to me, that I may 
inquire about the mischief you have been brew- 
ing;" and with his usual benevolent smile, he 
closed the door after her, bidding her hasten. 

The old priest had a long conference with Hngh, 
from which the latter came forth with a smiling 
face, though the traces of tears were yet on his 
sunburnt cheek, for a solemn charge had been 
given him to watch over and protect the fair 
flower which was soon to be worn on his heart; 
but when he entered the presence of Rose, it was 
with a light' step and a bounding pulse. This 
was the midsummer time, and ere the harvest- 
moon had waned, Hugh Brady and his Rose were 
a wedded pair, and the tenants of a small farm, 
the gift of Father Sullivan to Rose, on her mar- 
riage. It was but a few rods from his own house, 



412 PROSE* 

and every day his home was gladdened by the 
presence of his darhng. 

Time passed on, and young rosebuds blossomed 
in the house of Hugh Brady, rejoicing the hearts 
off their parents, and the kind relative to whom 
everything connected with Rose was dear and 
beautiful. But the good man was now stricken in 
years, and ere Rose's third child, who bore his 
name, had learned to lisp a prayer at his knee, he 
was gathered like a shock of corn, fully ripe, into 
the garner of the Lord, and was lamented with a 
true and tender sorrow. This was the first afflic- 
tion which had befallen the happy famil)^, but 
others were now in store for them. Sickness laid 
its withering hand upon poor Hugh; their small 
crops, which had hitherto been sufficient to supply 
the wants of the family, were blighted and de- 
stroyed ; a friend to whom Hugh had lent money 
proved faithless and dishonest ; his father could not 
or would not aid him, and the only expectations 
which Hugh could ever boast of were from a 
crabbed old relative of his mother's, who . had 
declared his intention of keeping all he had while 
he lived; so that when Hugh, after an illness of six 
months' standing, at length left his bed, poverty 
was actually staring them in the face. Still weak 
from the effects of his long illness, and shocked by 
the situation to which he found himself reduced, 
Hugh became low-spirited and despairing, and 
Rose, in addition to' her efibrts to meet the expenses 
of the family by her own labor, was forced to 
assume a gayer manner than usual, and to strive 



PROSE. 413 

by every means to shake off her husband's depres- 
sion. 

While in this situation, he received a letter from 
an old friend who had been living in America for 
several years, filled with representations of the eas^ 
with which work and money could be procured, 
and the plenty which existed in all parts of the 
country. Hugh was delighted with the description 
given by his friend, and after some deliberation 
upon the matter, he laid before Rose a plan he had 
formed, which was to sell their farm, and with 
what money could thus be raised to sail for the 
United States, and seek to better their fortunes in 
that El Dorado. There was a desperate struggle 
in the mind of his wife. She possessed in a high 
degree the love of country which usually charac- 
terizes the children of the Emerald Isle, and she 
could not easily tear herself from the spot where 
rested the ashes of her parents, and of the uncle 
who had been so kind a friend through his life, so 
devoted a father to her in her lonely orphan state. 
But she saw that Hugh was deeply interested in 
the plan; and glad and thankful for any event 
which could arouse him from his apathy, she at 
last consented. 

All things were soon in readiness ; the farm and 
its utensils, the house and furniture, all were con- 
verted into money, and the little family were soon 
embarked on the wide ocean, to seek a home 
among strangers in a strange land. They arrived 
in safety in New York city just as the winter was 
setting in ; they could find no traces of their friend 



414 PROSE. 

who had urged them to come out, and Hugh 
sought in vain for employment. The season 
proved to be a very inclement one, and before the 
spring opened, their little stock of money was 
nearly exhausted, and no prospect of better things 
presented. At length some one, compassionating 
poor Hugh, advised him to go to Boston, where he 
might possibly get a chance to do something for 
the support of his family. They accordingly 
started directly, and a few days after their arrival 
Hugh obtained employment on a rail-road then 
building, the same which passes within, a few 
miles of Hazlehurst. While thus employed, Hugh 
chanced to meet with the friend at whose instance 
he had come to America. This man was a resi- 
dent in our village, and he prevailed upon Hugh to 
remove his family hither, as he could live here at a 
far less expense than in the city; and in a little 
while Rose and her children, now five in number, 
were settled in their present humble dwelling. 

At first, as she has since told me, she was very 
lonely here, for their only friend was a single mail, 
and the females in town rather shunned her, as 
being a stranger, and an Irish woman withal. She 
used to cry for hours, and wish herself back in her 
own land, and among her warm-hearted, hospita- 
ble countrywomen. But after a time, a few per- 
sons in town to whom she had applied for needle- 
work, struck by the quiet dignity of her manners, 
and the ease and propriety of her language, inter- 
ested themselves in her situation, drew from her 
the particulars of her story, and soon there were 



PROSE. 415 

plenty of willing hearts and active hands to sym- 
pathize with and assist her. 

The Bradys have now been residents of Hazle- 
hurst for several years, and though still poor in 
everything but children, — so often called the poor 
man's blessings — and who ever knew an Irish 
family deficient in this kind of wealth ? — there is 
not a happier family in town, or five handsomer 
and better-behaved children. Rose herself, at 
thirty, is still in the very prime of beauty. Her 
fine figure is always neatly though very simply 
arrayed ; her full, blue eyes have lost none of their 
softness or brilliancy; and not a silver thread 
marks those beautiful brown tresses, which a 
duchess might envy; and though few perhaps 
would dream that the Irish laborer's wife once 
graced many a splendid assembly in her native 
land, none would question her claims to the admi- 
ration of such. But a brighter day is now dav/n- 
in^ for Rose. The last steamer from Great Britain 
brought tidings of the death of Hugh's crabbed old 
relative, from whom he inherits a sum sufiicient in 
this part of the country, where the means of living 
are cheap, to place them in comfortable circum- 
stances, and enable them to educate their children 
as they have always desired. In the upper part 
of Hazlehurst, just beyond the farm of Squire 
Wendell, is a small farm, with a neat little cottage 
upon it; there is a small flower-garden in front, 
and a little portico on either side the house, around 
the columns of which cluster honeysuckle and 
woodbine. This little place Hugh has purchased, 



416 PROSE. 

and the family are about removing thither. The 
taste of Rose and her eldest girl will soon embellish 
the dwelling, and her cheerful and happy temper 
will make a Paradise of this sunny spot. Long 
may they live to enjoy their new home ; may the 
''sunshine she has made in shady places" illume 
her own pathway, and the blessings she has 
showered on others return fourfold upon the happy 
head of Rose Brady ! 



THE LACE-WEAVER. 



On the right of the main or stage road, which 
passes directly through the centre of Hazlehurst, is 
a cross-path which was always a favorite walk of 
mine, and which I have often travelled to please a 
certain little friend, who used to solicit my com- 
pany on the bright summer mornings, when he 
drove the cow to pasture. For some distance there 
is a narrow path only, with grassy banks on either 
side; it then becomes wider, and winds along 
through thick shrubbery, within the shadow of 
slant old trees, whose branches sweep well-nigh 
across the road. Emerging 'thence, we come sud- 
denly in view of a low, red house, with a yard in 
front, on the gate of which some half dozen rosy, 
dirty urchins are usually swinging, their noisy 
mirth blending with the various sounds of the ad- 
joining yard, — hens cackling, turkeys gobbling, 
pigs squealing, and other melodies equally grateful 
to the unpractised ear. 

Just beyond is a dwelling somewhat similar in 



PROSE. 417 

appearance, also red, (there is usually a predomi- 
nance of this color in country towns, I believe,) 
and the lines in the yard, bending beneath the 
weight of wet clothes, and the linen spread on the 
grass-plat in front, betoken the residence of a 
washer- woman. Its occupant is usually known as 
Peggy Lord, a lean, shrivelled figure, with large 
black eyes, which now and then gleam out from 
beneath the heavy brows with a light positively 
startling, like the brilliant flash of a meteor. She 
is a strange, eccentric being, and there are many 
wild; dark tales concerning her former life, whether 
true or not is knoAvn to a certainty by none save 
God and herself. 

Still further along, on the opposite side, is a low 
farm-house of the same flaming hue, which stands 
back a little way from the road, and is partially 
shaded in front by a noble old oak, which grows just 
outside the fence, and sweeps majestically almost 
over the lowly roof; and there is an air of neatness, 
quiet, and home-comfort, in everything around, that 
insensibly attracts your attention to it, humble as 
it is. This is the Hirst Farm, a bit of a place, with 
about eight acres of land, and a house like a bird's 
nest. 'Tis a pleasant spot to my eye, hoAvever, 
and I have an aff'ection for everything thereto be- 
longing, from Rover the house-dog, who leaps up 
to welcome me when I appear, up to the dear old 
master and mistress, John Page and his good dame 
Jane, or, as he himself calls her by that prettiest 
of diminutives, ^^ JeannieP 

They have been denizens of Hazlehurst some 
35 



418 PROSE. 

dozen years ; but my acquaintance with them ex- 
tends but a short time back. I had been spending 
a summer afternoon with Ellen Calder, and during 
the visit I chanced to notice some lace she wore, 
of a peculiar and somewhat intricate pattern, and 
was surprised to hear that it was manufactured in 
our own town. "Is it possible you have never 
heard of Dame Page, the lace-weaver 7 " said Ellen. 
"You must go and see her, then, directly ; for she is 
a dear old creature, and a special favorite of ours ; 
and it will be quite curious to you, if you have 
never seen lace made by hand, to witness the 
method of weaving." 

So, in less than an hour, we were on our way to 
the farm. We were met at the gate by the good 
man, in his check and blue trousers, who doffed 
his old straw hat with a courteous salutation as he 
recognized my companion, and invited us to walk 
into the house. The dame sat at the window, 
paring apples, but she laid aside her employment 
as we entered, and greeted us kindly and pleasantly. 
After a little chat, Ellen desired her to bring out 
her lace-work, explaining that I had never seen 
anything of the kind, and would be interested. 
She accordingly went to a closet, and brought forth 
a huge cushion, which, after seating herself, she 
took in her lap, and removing the cover, displayed 
the lace-pillow. It was about a foot long, and a 
foot and a half wide, but so heavy I could with 
difficulty raise it. At the upper eud was a case 
made to contain the lace when finished, and there 
the threads were fastened. In weaving, each thread 



PROSE. 419 

was wound round a pin, to form the meshes, and 
the pattern, which was drawn on a sort of parch- 
ment, wras laid beneath. On either side of the pillow 
hung bunches of bobbins, made of ivory and orna- 
mented at the ends with glass beads of every size, 
shape, and color; and when her fingers moved 
briskly among them,- they produced a pleasant 
jingling music, like bells on the ankles of a danc- 
ing-girl. 

I am thus minute in describing all these trifles, 
because some who may read this article may per- 
haps, like myself, never have seen a lace-pillow, 
and they may be interested in this description. We 
remained an hour or two, chatting with the farmer 
and his wife ; and, after looking at her snug little 
rooms, which were neat as hands could make them, 
and purchasing some of her lace, we returned home 
charmed with the old couple, and ready to listen 
with pleasure to the sketch which Ellen gave us 
of their history. Hoping that you, dear reader, 
may also find a few minutes' entertainment therein, 
I propose to transcribe it here. 

John Page, the worthy farmer, was the youngest 
son of a wealthy manufacturer in a pleasant town 
in Derbyshire, England. Both his sons were bred 
to the business ; and in due time William, the elder, 
became a partner, and John head clerk in the ware- 
house connected with the concern. Never were two 
brothers so totally dissimilar. While William, an 
arch hypocrite, contrived to hide beneath a cold 
and imposing exterior a base and profligate heart, 
and was looked upon by all the friends of the family 



420 PROSE. 

as a fine, promising young man, John, an ardent 
and impetuous, but high-souled youth, was con- 
demned for folhes and vices from which his noble 
spirit would have shrunk with horror and disgust ; 
and more than once had the elder been glad to 
throw himself upon the generosity and forbearance 
of his younger brother, when 'that alone could save 
him from the disgrace he so richly merited. Warm- 
hearted and affectionate himself, John could form 
no idea of a cold, selfish, calculating soul, like that 
of William ; and he doubted not that were the case 
reversed, his brother would have done the same 
service for him which he so freely rendered. But 
the time came for unveiling the dark secrets of that 
artful breast. 

In the suburbs of the town where the Page family 
resided, in a neat but humble tenement, dwelt the 
Widow Grey and her daughter Jane. Her husband 
had been a soldier, who, dying in battle, left no 
provision for his widow and child, save a small pen- 
sion granted by government, with which, and the 
little she could herself earn by needle- work, by the 
strictest frugality, Mrs. Grey was enabled to sup- 
port herself and Jeannie, till such time as the latter 
should be able to contribute to the supply of her 
own wants. While Jane was very young, there 
lived in the neighborhood of their dwelling an old 
woman, bed-ridden and nearly blind, who had 
been a lace- weaver ; and, in return for many kind 
little offices rendered her by the widow and her child, 
she offered to instruct Jane in the art which had 
been her own means of livelihood for so many 



PROSE. 421 

3rears, and which might in coming days be of ser- 
vice to her also, besides furnishing for the present 
a pleasant occupation for her leisure hours. 

Jeannie, delighted with the offer, proved a docile 
and teachable pupil ; and having been allowed to 
finish some beautiful edging which the old woman 
was weaving for a lady in the adjoining town, she 
carried it to its destination. The lady was so 
struck with the delicacy of the work, that she called 
upon Jane's teacher, and having learned who was 
the weaver, and gained such information relative 
to her and her mother as the grateful old woman 
was ready to impart, she gave the young girl orders 
for some lace of a superior quality and more ele- 
gant pattern ; and thus Jeannie was immediately 
put in the way of assisting her mother in her efforts 
for their joint support. Her first patroness soon 
introduced her protegee to other friends, and she 
had soon more orders than she could by the most 
constant inclustry supply. 

Among her employers was Mrs. Page, the mother 
of the two 3^oung men whom we have before intro- 
duced to the reader; and it was while she was 
receiving some instructions as to the quality and 
pattern of some lace she was to weave, that she 
unluciiily attracted the attention of William Page. 
Jeannie Grey was at that time nearly sixteen, and 
though wanting claims to regular beauty of form 
or feature, there was a delicacy and fragility in 
her appearance, a lily-like purity, that could not 
fail to interest the beholder. She was small in 
stature and slight, with a fair complexion, soft, 
35^ 



422 vnosE, 

gray eyes, and a profusion of glossy hair, of the 
palest brown, with here and there a golden tinge, 
as of sunlight playing among the tresses. Her 
character and manners took the same tone,— simple 
and unpretending, yet graceful and dignified; for 
her mother, though poor, had been gently bred 
and well educated, and she had communicated to 
her child her own gentleness and ease of manner. 
With these characteristics, Jeannie Grey was emi- 
nently calculated to attract and fascinate a man 
like William Page, who had been accustomed to 
the bolder beauty and coarse manners of the girls 
who were employed in his own manufactories, who 
lent a ready ear to his compliments and flatteries, 
and some of whom had awoke too late to a sense 
of his baseness and treachery. John, too, had 
looked with admiring eyes upon the fair lace-girl^ 
but his was a sentiment called forth by, and offered 
as a tribute to, her purity of looks and manner; and 
he would have shrunk Avith scorn and disgust 
from his brother, could he have looked into his 
heart at that moment, and seen the base designs 
that were harbored there. From that day, the 
unsuspecting Jeannie was an object of constant 
pursuit with William. He sought every opportunity 
of meeting her and walking home with her when 
she had brought her lace into the town; and at 
first she received his attentions and compliments 
with the quiet dignity peculiar to her. But as 
time passed on, and he became impatient for the 
success of his plot, his manner grew bolder, and 



PROSE. 423 

he finally cast off all reserve, and revealed his vile 
plans to the horror-stricken girl. 

At first she did not understand him ; but when 
he pressed his suit, and it was all made plain to 
her, she shrunk from him with fear and abhor- 
rence, and fled, to seek refuge with her mother, 
into whose anxious bosom she poured the tale of 
her mortification, and of the indignity and insult 
which had been offered her. Shocked and indig- 
nant at the insolence with which her child had 
been treated, Mrs. Grey's first impulse was to seek 
redress at the hands of the man who had dared to 
invade the peace and quiet of her humble home ; 
her next was to make- known the wrong to his 
parents, and thus secure Jeannie from further 
molestation ; but the poor girl was too much dis- 
tressed already to bear the thought of the affair 
becoming public, and thus exposing herself to the 
sneers of some and the harsh judgments of otbers. 
So the insult was kept secret in the bosoms of the 
three, but never for a moment forgotten by the 
sufferers. Thenceforth, Jeannie avoided, as much 
as possible, the sight of William Page, and seldom 
went into the town unless accompanied by her 
mother or some acquaintance, till the plotter be- 
came enraged at the caution of the victim he had 
marked out as his prey, and laid other schemes for 
the furtherance of his design. 

Meantime, ignorant of his brother's affairs, John 
Page had become almost insensibly attracted to the 
pretty lace-maker; and though she had at first, 
after the insult offered her by William, repulsed 



494 PROSE. 

the attentions of his brother, yet there was an 
openness and frankness in John's manner, and a 
gentleness in his speech, which she could not 
wholly resist ; so now and then she would permit 
him to walk by her side for a little while, till at 
length he succeeded in drawing her into an easy 
chat, and the impression made by her appearance 
was in no wise lessened by her conversation. All 
this was noticed by the watchful William, and it 
only strengthened his resolves to thwart his brother, 
and gain the simple and lovely maiden. 

One summer day, Jeannie had walked alone to 
the town after tea, thinking she should be able to 
despatch her business there, and return before the 
twilight shades began to fall. She was detained^ 
however, later than she had anticipated, and there- 
fore determined to take the shortest route home, 
which lay across some fields and through a long 
lane, at the extremity of which was her home. 
The evening was rapidly coming on, and she was 
hurrying along the path, when she was suddenly 
intercepted as she was entering the lane, and an 
arm was thrown around her waist, while, at the 
same time, a voice which she thought she recog- 
nized, bade her be silent and listen patiently, and 
she should not be harmed. A quick cry broke 
from her lips, and instantly a hand was placed 
over her mouth, and the voice, which she now 
knew to be that of William Page, again enjoined 
silence. She struggled to free herself, as he again 
poured into her unwilling ear his infamous passion; 
but when he sought to embrace her, with a wild. 



PROSE. 425 

desperate effort she tore herself from him, and 
shrieked for help. Providentially for her, it was 
not far distant. Scarcely had the cry broke from 
her, VvThen her persecutor lay stunned at her feet, 
and the kindly tones of John Page bade her be of 
good cheer, for she was in safety. But ere they 
could leave the spot, or Jeannie find voice to thank 
her preserver, the fallen man had risen from the 
ground, and, with a furious gesture, strode towards 
his adversary. In the darkness, neither had recog- 
nized the other, and John would again have felled 
him Avith a blow, but Jeannie sprang forward, 
exclaiming, ''Do not strike him, John; it is your 
brother!" "William — and thus unworthily en- 
gaged ! Shame on you, thus to disgrace your man- 
hood, and the £,tation you hold, by insulting a 
defenceless girl ! " ''Ha! and it was for you, then, 
■ — for my honorable younger brother, — that I was 
slighted and scorned ! But there is a time coming 
when you shall both rue this hour — when the 
Iblow this night given shall be redeemed in blood!" 
And. with a shake of his 'clenched fist in the face 
tof his brother, and a demoniacal smile at Jeannie, 
he departed. 

For a moment neither of the pair who remained 
moved or spoke; both seemed completely para- 
lyzed by the events of the last few moments ; but 
John at length proposed that they should hasten 
their steps, for the dews were falling, and the grass 
beneath their feet was already wet. Then Jean- 
nie' s excited feelings found vent in tears and 
broken words, as she recurred to William's threats 



426 PROSE. 

and anticipated his vengeance, less on her own 
account than his who had aroused it by his 
defence of her. " Fear not, dear Jeannie," was 
the reply. " William is violent in his passions, but 
this storm will soon subside, and he will feel only 
shame for his Conduct." Ere they reached the 
dwelling of Mrs. Grey that night, John had made 
known his honorable attachment to the maiden; 
but though she did not deny her affection for him, 
she refused to give encouragement to one whose 
station was above her own, and whose parents 
Avould never consent to his marriage with the 
humble lace-weaver. He would have striven to 
change her resolution; but she was firm, and 
begged so earnestly that the subject might not be 
resumed, that he left her at the door of her moth- 
er's house, with but a hand-pressure and a mur- 
mured " God bless you ! " 

When the brothers met again, William gave no 
token by which one would have supposed he 
remembered the events of the previous night ; but 
his cold, careless manner was but assumed to hide 
the hatred that was rankling in his breast; and 
John would perhaps have been put off his guard 
at times, but for an occasional glance cast at him 
by William when he thought himself unobserved, 
so full of malice and revenge that he deemed it 
most prudent to keep a watch upon his brother's 
proceedings. 

Nearly a year had passed since they first became 
acquainted with Jeannie, when Mrs. Grey was 
suddenly seized with a somewhat lingering and 



PROSE. 427 

dangerous illness, and her daughter was now 
almost wholly employed in nursing her, scarcely 
allowing herself time for needful exercise in the 
open air. One evening, at her mother's request, she 
had left her for a few minutes to walk in the 
adjoining lane, when William again accosted her 
with a renewal of his suit, and threats of ven- 
geance upon herself and his brother, if she persisted 
in her rejection. Terrified by his violence, she 
fled like a frightened deer towards home ; he fol- 
lowed, and v/ould have caught her in his rude 
grasp, but footsteps were heard approaching, and, 
muttering threats, he disappeared. He had been 
watched, however, and the steps were those of his 
brother, who now gently drew the trembling girl to 
his side, and led her home. She was too weak to 
stand, and he supported her into the cottage; and 
having placed her in a chair, she was soon able to 
go to her mother, who Lay in an adjoining bed-room. 
Mrs. Grey now thought herself dying ; and her 
quick ear having caught the sound of John's voice, 
she feebly requested that he would come to her 
bedside. With few and earnest words she spoke 
of her approaching death ; of the desolate state in 
which her child would be left, with no near rela- 
tive to receive and protect her; and she begged the 
young man who had shown himself so truly her 
friend to look to her. safety. " Give her to me, 
then, dear madam," said the strongly agitated 
youth; '' let me be her protector indeed, her guar- 
dian, her husband. I will guard her with my life 
from the insults to which she might be exposed in 



428 PKosE. 

her desolate orphan state. I am strong, heahhy, 
and active ; and elsewhere, if not in England, we 
may obtain a subsistence;" and taking the hand of 
the weeping Jeannie in his own, he knelt by her 
side, and begged the dying mother^s blessing upon 
them. It was joyfully giTen, for Mrs. Grey had 
stndied the character of the young man with a 
deep interest, since she had discovered her daugh- 
ter's attachment to him, and she now felt that there 
was none other to whose care she could so cheer- 
fully confide her treasure. Jeannie would still 
have refused, for the objections she had once made 
were still in force : but she saw her only earthly 
friend passing from her; she heard that beloved 
'voice which had never counselled but for her good 
lu'ging her with its. last feeble accents to this union, 
Y/hile he whom she loved, and v/ho had shov/n so 
true and honorable a passion for herself, pleaded 
for the hand which her heart was ready to bestow, 
and she could resist no longer. Ere the morning 
broke, Mrs. Grey died, happy in the confidence that 
she had given her child to the guardianship of one 
who would be faithful to her even as she had' 
been; and John, after calling in one or two of the 
neighbors to the assistance of the weeping Jeannie, 
returned home to reflect upon the engagement into 
which he had entered, and to lay plans for the 
future. To remain in his present situation was 
impossible, after his marriage with the poor lace- 
girl, — a measure to which he knew his parents 
Avould never consent ; and his father would most 
probably cast him out from his favor, in case of 



PROSE. 429 

disobedience. Neither would it be proper or prac- 
ticable for Jeannie to remain in her present abode 
after her mother's funeral, — and till that time a 
kind neighbor and his wife would stay with her ; 
but one plan suggested itself to his mind, and that 
was to remove her as privately as possible to the 
house of an aunt of his own, some miles distant, 
who was much attached to him, and Avould, he 
thought, for his sake, receive the poor orphan girl, 
and keep her till they could be united, and some 
feasible mode of proceeding be determined upon. 

Immediately after her mother's burial, Jeannie 
returned, with the kind people who had passed the 
intervening days with her, to their own home, from 
whence she was secretly removed at night by 
John, and placed in the care of his aunt, who 
received her young charge kindly, and promised to 
protect her till such time as -her nephew should 
come to claipi her. 

Meantime William, enraged at the total defeat 
of his artfully laid plans, turned his thoughts ta 
obtaining revenge upon his brother ; and Jeannie's 
absence having been discovered, dark hints, sar- 
castic words, and vile insinuations, came to the 
father's ear, and poisoned his mind against his 
younger son ; so that when John returned, he was 
met by harsh rebukes, and commanded to quit the 
house and his father's presence forever. No oppor- 
tunity was allowed him for explanation or pallia- 
tion; and indignant at the injustice with which he 
was treated, and goaded to desperation by the tri- 
umphant looks and fiendish smiles of William, he 
36 



430 PROSE. 

gathered up his few effects and left the house. To 
avoid the pursuit which he fancied his brother 
would make, he took a devious route to the dwell- 
ing of his aunt, and arrived on the evening of the 
next day. He rapidly sketched to his aunt the 
events which had taken place, and asked her 
advice as to the course he should now pursue. To 
remain there was impossible; but she urged his im- 
mediate marriage, and advised him to proceed, after 
the consummation, to one of the large manufactur- 
ing towns, and seek a situation as clerk. Accord- 
ingly the young couple were married in the village 
church, in the presence of the good lady and an old 
and faithful servant, and in a/ few days they were 
on their way to Manchester. 

On their arrival, they took lodgings in a secluded 
part of the town, and the next day John sallied 
forth in search of employment. This was not so 
easily obtained as they had supposed ; and week 
after week, and month after month, went by, and 
no prospect of work presented, when one day, as 
Jeannie was walking listlessly along, she noticed 
some samples of lace in the show-window of a large 
warehouse, and the idea flashed across her mind 
that she might return to her old occupation, and 
thus be enabled to add something to their fast 
diminishing stock of money. No sooner had the 
thought suggested itself than she retraced her 
steps, and entering the shop, requested to speak 
with the proprietor. On being shown into the 
counting-room, she proceeded at once to state her 
errand, and learned, to her dismay, that lace could 



• PROSE. 431 

be imported so much finer and more beautiful than 
that woven by hand, at a less price, that little 
demand was made for the home manufacture. 
She was about to retire, saddened by the failure of 
her plan, when the merchant, who was a kind- 
hearted man, struck by the pale, mournful face of 
his visiter, stopped her, and asked several questions 
relative to her work ; and then showing her some 
samples of different patterns, inquired if she 
thought she could imitate them. After a slight 
examination, Jeannie eagerly answered in the 
affirmative ; and giving her one of the simplest, the 
gentleman engaged a piece of the same quality and 
pattern, and she hurried home to commence her 
task. On her arrival there, she had the pleasure 
of learning that her husband had also found em- 
ployment, which, though not very profitable, and 
perhaps not permanent, would furnish them for the 
present with the means of subsistence. The lace 
was finished in due time, and gave such ample 
satisfaction to her emplo^^er, that Jeannie had 
soon as much work as she could well perform; and 
some assistance having been rendered by John's 
aunt, they were enabled to rent two or three rooms 
in a tolerably, pleasant place just out of town, 
where, happy in each other, they almost forgot 
their poverty. Time wore on, and with increase 
of family, and of care, came also increased con- 
tent ; and the only draw-back to the happiness of 
the devoted pair was the continued anger and 
silence of John's parents. 

But at length tidings of a sad and startling 



432 PROSE. 

nature reached them, and in the shock every other 
feeling was merged in that of pity and sorrow! 
William Page's villany had at length become 
manifest. He had fled the country by night, taking 
with him all the funds belonging to the firm, of 
which he had been able by fraud or artifice to gain 
possession; and agonized by the discovery, his 
father had been seized with a brain fever, which 
in two days terminated his life, leavmg his heart- 
broken, desolate widow, ignorant of the fate of her 
younger son, and mourning over the criminality 
of the elder. The melancholy news reached the 
sister of Mrs. Page soon after the events had taken 
place, and the kind woman immediately hastened 
to the house of mourning; and in reply to the 
widow's self-reproaches for having so long neg- 
lected her younger son, and thus lost all trace of 
him, her sister informed her of his situation, and at 
her earnest request, wrote to him, conjuring him to 
come to them immediately with his family. In a 
few hours after receiving this letter, John, with his 
wife and three children, set out for the now desolate 
home of his childhood, where he was met by his 
bowed and broken-spirited mother with mingled 
joy and grief 

When his father's afiairs were settled, but little 
remained for the widow and son of Mr. Page's 
handsome fortune; but the remnant was settled 
upon his mother, and then John obtained a situa- 
tion as clerk in the manufactory, which had now 
passed into other hands. The proprietor, how- 
ever, was an old fri-end of his father, and had 



PROSE. 



433 



always shown a preference for John; so, after 
a short time, a partnership in the business was 
offered him and gladly accepted, and prosperity 
seemed again to smile upon the family. 

Years passed on, and so pleasant was their lapse, 
.that it was scarcely noted by them, save when they 
looked upon the blooming group that gathered 
around them, or noticed the increasing infirmities 
of Mrs. Page. But then came the fearful pressure 
of 18 — , the commercial failures, the reduction of 
wages, and all the attendant evils of that dreadful 
crisis, and among the ruined houses was that of 
Chester and Page. Again was John Page cast 
forth to brave the storms of adversity, but not as 
before single-handed ; for he had now a wife and 
seven fair children, and a mother bowed down by 
the weight of years and many sorrows, whose little 
all had been swept away by this last shock, all 
dependent upon his exertions for support. 

There is an old saying that "misfortunes never 
come single ;" and now, in the midst of their per- 
plexities they lost the kind aunt, the only friend 
who would have been able and willing to assist 
them; and her income, being but a widow's joint- 
ure, ended with her life, so that a few hundred 
pounds, which was all, with her benevolent pro- 
pensities, she had been able to save, and which 
was bequeathed to her nephew, was nearly the only 
means of support the destitute family had now at 
command. Old Mrs. Page, worn out with many 
sorrows, survived her sister but a few weeks, and 
when at length the grief and excitement attendant 
36^ 



434 ' PROSE. 

upon their successive bereavements had subsidedj 
the minds of the anxious parents reverted naturally 
to the now engrossing question, ''What shall we 
do for a living?" Anxiously was it pondered, 
and various were the plans suggested and thrown 
aside as inexpedient and impracticable, till Jeannie 
proposed returning to the place where the first 
years of their married life had passed so pleasantly 
and prosperously, and where they still had friends 
who might perhaps put them in the way of that 
which they most desired — employment. \ 

Thither they accordingly bent their steps, and 
were soon domiciled in the same dwelling they had 
formerly rented; and then John set forth to call 
upon some old acquaintances, trusting to procure 
a situation ere he returned. But the whirlwind 
which had swept over their own town had spent 
its ^xry here also, and the same evils Avhich had 
driven them from their pleasant home awaited 
them here. Work was scarce, wages low, and in 
fact barely nominal, while bread and fuel were 
enormously high. Meanwhile, the good aunt's 
legacy was wasting away, and in the midst of 
their distress, three of the children were taken ill 
with a malignant disease, and in a few days were 
snatched from their parents' arms. Still days and 
weeks went by, and no employment could be 
obtained, save when the lace-merchant, compas- 
sionating the circumstances of the family, would 
procure Jeannie an order from some wealthy pus- 
tomer; and then, while her eldest girl performed the 
now trifling household duties, she would devote 



PROSE. 435 

herself to her lace-work, and with the money thus 
procured minister to the necessities of her family. 
But day by day the pressure grew more terrible, 
till at length the husband and father grew des- 
perate, and one night his pale and care-worn wife 
watched in vain for his return. The long, weary 
hours passed on, but he came not ; and well-nigh 
distracted with terrible apprehensions, she was 
setting forth in search of him, when a letter was 
placed in her hand, which she tore open, and read 
as follows : 

" Dearest Jeannie : — When you receive these few hasty 
lines, I shall be far away firom you, and God only knows when 
and where we shall next meet, I could have borne misery 
and poverty in every shape, while it harmed myself only, but 
I could not stand by and see you and our children starve ; and 
for your dear sakes.I v/ill now v/ander forth, and seek in another 
land the subsistence Vv^hich our own denies us. Enclosed is a 
considerable sum, part of which I received to-day in payment 
of a debt long forgotten, and the rest I obtained by the sale of 
a few articles, the gifts of departed friends. This, with what 
remains of our aunt's legacy, and what the lace-work may 
bring in, will, I trust, enable you to bear up till I can earn 
and remit something to you. I have skipped as a sailor on 
board a packet bound for America, where we have been so 
often told that work is abundant and remuneration fair ; and 
there I may perhaps be enabled to affi)rd you that support 
which no exertion of mine could procure here. We have 
parted, dearest, in darkness, and gloom, and sorrow ; but let 
us hope that the sun will yet pierce the storm-clouds of afflic- 
tion, and beam more brightly for the shadows which have so 
long obscured its lustre. Till that blessed hour, farewell ! 
Think of and pray for me, Jeannie, and believe that till death 
stills its pulses, your image will ever be borne in the heart of 
your \ Husband." 



436 PROSE. 

The letter dropped from the hands of the heart- 
stricken wife, and for a time she sat motionless, as 
if paralyzed by the shock ; but the voices of her 
children aroused her, and reminded her that she 
was now their sole guardian and protector, — that 
she was — alone ! 

A year passed, in which no tidings had been 
received to gladden the heart of that lonely 
woman ; but at the end of that period came a long 
and affectionate letter from her husband. The 
packet in which he had sailed had reached New 
York in safety ; but that city being already bur- 
thened with emigrants, in addition to her large 
native population, he took passage from thence to 
Boston, and then set out on foot, he knew not 
whither. He halted at various places on his journey 
and asked for employment, but was refused, till he 
became well-nigh discouraged; and at the close of 
the second day, foot-sore and weary, he reached the 
village of Hazlehurst, and seeing a tavern sign, he 
dragged his steps thither, and sat down on a bench 
beneath the piazza in front, to rest his aching limbs. 
He looked round on the men collected there, and 
sought in the different faces of the group to read 
something like sympathy, which would encourage 
him to speak, and make known his wants and 
situation. But all looked coldly and strangely 
upon him, and he turned away sad and disap- 
pointed. 

After resting for a while, he arose, and entering 
the public room, purchased a biscuit and a glass 
of beer, and then feeling somewhat refreshed, he 



PROSE. 437 

ventured to ask the landlord if any one in the vil- 
lage would like to employ him. The landlord 
paused for a moment, and scanned the stranger 
from head to foot; but there was an open, frank 
expression in the Englishman's face^ an honest 
look in the clear blue eye, and an air of good- 
breeding, withal, notwithstanding his weather- 
beaten and travel-stained appearance, which re- 
moved all suspicion; and Mr. Bert replied that he 
knew of no one, unless it were Deacon Alden ; and 
having given him a plain and simple direction to 
the place, Mr. Page set out. He found it with 
little difficulty, and in answer to his inquiry the 
good deacon made his appearance, and asked the 
stranger's business. The question was speedily 
answered ; and, interested by his appearance, the 
good man asked what kind of work he could do ? 
"I am ignorant of all farm- work," was the reply, 
''but I can learn; and I will do anything, however 
humble or laborious, so I can but earn a living. A 
little rest will soon restore my strength and vigor, 
and then no labor Avill be too hard for me to per- 
form, so I may be enabled to help those who are 
dependent upon me for support." 

That night the stranger slept beneath the dea- 
con's reof, and the next morning he arose, rested 
and refreshed, to enter upon his new routine of 
duties. Employment was given him, light at first, 
and increasing as he gained strength ; and so at- 
tached to him did the deacon's family become, that 
his loss would have seemed to them like that of 
one of their own kindred. He had told them his 



438 PROSE. 

history, and of the wife and children he had left 
behind him amid such utter poverty ; and when he 
spoke of sending for them, the family warmly 
seconded his wishes, and bade him hasten their 
arrival. So he wrote to his poor Jeannie, and told 
her, if she had courage to brave the perils of the 
sea and of a strange land, to come to him, and 
with their children give him a home again in this 
favored land. 

There were glad hearts that night in the humble 
and poverty-stricken abode of Jeannie Page and 
her four pale, sad-faced children, and joyful tears 
were shed over that blessed letter. What to them 
were perils by land or sea compared to the desolate 
dwelling which that dear husband and parent's 
smile brightened not — to the gripings of hunger, 
the scanty garment and the shivering frame ! He 
had sent money enough to bring them to him if 
frugally used ; and poor as they were, they owed no 
one, and had still a few shillings left. So that 
night they ate their scanty meai with grateful and 
contented hearts, and the next day packed their 
httle store of clothes, and by the sale of their few 
remaining articles of furniture, raised a small sum, 
part of which was given to a poor old neighbor, 
more needy than they had been, and with whom 
they had often shared their bread and water, and 
they set off for the port where the packet ships 
sailed for America ; and on the fifth day after the 
receipt of John Page's letter, the little family were 
out on the broad ocean which separated them from 
the dear friend to whose arms they were hastening. 



PROSE. 439 

:* * * -^ * ^ * 

It was at nearly the same hour, on a clear spring 
day, just a year from the time when John Page 
halted at the tavern in Hazlehurst, that a wagon 
set down a woman and four children at the same 
place ; and the woman at once made her way up 
to the bar, and inquired eagerly if one John Page 
lived in the village. The man whora she addressed 
replied in the negative, but another, who had been 
standing near and heard the inquiry, stepped for- 
ward and informed her that a man bearing that 
name had been in Deacon Alden's employ, and, 
unless he had quitted suddenly, was still there. 

With a boy to direct her, Mrs. Page accordingly 
set out for the Alden Farm ; and as she was passing 
up the yard, she heard a voice whose tones thrilled 
her every nerve, and darting forward to the spot 
whence it proceeded, she gave a joyful cry, and the 
next moment was in the arms of her husband ! The 
strangers were' kindly received by the hospitable 
Aldens ; and in a few days a small tenement was 
rented, and the reunited family were soon settled 
in a new home. Mrs. Alden exerted herself to 
procure among her friends in the village different 
articles of clothing, shoes, &c., for Mrs. Page and 
her children, and some pieces of necessary furni- 
ture to stock their humble dwelling. 

Among those who were foremost in assisting the 
emigrant family was Mrs. Calder, Ellen's mother, 
and Jeannie's gratitude to them has ever been 
warm and lively. Since that time, everything has 
prospered with John Page. He continued to work 



440 PROSE. 

on Deacon Alden's farm, till he had gained sujffi.- 
cient knowledge and experience to enable him to 
carry on a small one himself, when his boys should 
be able to assist him. So, in due time, he took the 
Hirst Farm, and there they have lived happily 
together for several years. His two sons are active 
lads, and take the burthen of the work off their 
father. One daughter died of consumption a few 
years ago, the only sorrow they have experienced 
duriiig their residence here ; but the other, a bright 
and handsome girl, is the wife of a wealthy farmer 
in the next town, and the pride and joy of her 
parents. 

Jeannie still keeps her lace-pillow, and now and 
then weaves a piece, the sale of which furnishes 
her with a little pocket-money ; and it is worth the 
price of a web to get a look at her bright, cheerful 
face, her beaming smile, and soft hazel eyes, and 
to hear her low, gfentle voice, as ;she tells some 
anecdote of her early days, or of the trials she has 
been called to bear. There is not a happier couple 
than they in Hazlehurst ; and it reminds one of 
Burns' old ballads, to see them sometimes, when 
they have been talking of the past, as they sit, 
hand in hand, by a window that looks out upon a 
spot resembling one they knew and loved in Old 
England, looking into each others' eyes with an 
expression which seems to say, 

" Now we maun totter down, John, 
But hand in hand we '11 go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 
John Anderson, my Jo." 



311-77-9 



